Of Crab Tins and Diamonds
by SeagullandCroissant
Summary: Anxious for adventure, Tintin leaves his home behind for a new life at sea aboard the Karaboudjan. As he gets used to sailor life, he meets new friends, including Captain Allan Thompson and his first mate, Tom. However, as the seas begin to churn and the journey ahead becomes much more dangerous, Tintin begins to question if the Karaboudjan and her crew are all what they seem. (AU)
1. Ch 1:Of Interviews and Pencil Shavings

_**ALERT ALERT: I n case you don't notice I have rewritten this first chapter than how it was originally written. Don't worry, the same things do happen but, I believe the words and phrases are much smoother and not as choppy as before (however, I might have missed italicizing a Karaboujan or two. Whoops.). However, if you just so happened to just discover this Fanfiction, don't worry, you didn't miss anything that was here before (and you are blessed in not seeing my choppy writing) so without further adeu, enjoy! **_

_**AN: GREETINGS.**_

 _ **I know, I know. I'm working on other Fanfictions right now, But, I just HAD to upload this one! Honestly, I am disappointed at the lack of Tintin fanfictions featuring Allan, Tom, and the rest of the Karaboujan crew (seriously they're not even on the choice of characters to pick from when upload!). Next to Blindsided this is my favorite piece of Fanfiction I've written. I hope you like it, I've never written in an AU before and I hope y'all enjoy it. Please don't forget to tell me what you think! By the way, I've updated the cover for Blindsided. Go check it out!**_

 _"Smell the sea, and feel the sky, let your soul and spirit fly." ~ Van Morrison_

 _" 'Job hunting, applications, resumes, and interviews are fun!' said no one ever." ~someecards_

 _ **Chapter 1: Of Interviews and Pencil Shavings**_

Allan was disappointed.

No, scratch that.

He was _very_ disappointed.

Wiping his face in the blistering afternoon heat, Allan Thompson looked up from papers spread before him in unbridled disgust.

" _This_ is it?"

" _Allan_!"

"What? I'm just asking, for Pete's sake."

"Allan," A male voice hissed in his ear, as he rolled his eyes underneath the brim of his cap, "He's standing right in front of you! Show some respect!"

"Yes, _mother_..." Allan whispered mockingly under his breath, forcing his eyes back down on the paper as he wrote a few illegible marks with his chewed up pencil.

Seeing that his friend was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the man waiting quietly in front of them, Tom, Allan's faithful friend and second-in-command, gave the grungy sailor a strained smile.

"Thank you for your resume...uh... Sir. We'll keep in touch."

Returning the kind gesture with his own gap-toothed grin, the strange man, whose name Tom already forgotten, staggered off, muttering under his breath about "blasted sirens" and how he "needed a drink of water from this heat."

Waiting till the man rounded the corner of the nearest building, Tom let his smile falter, a loud groan escaping his mouth before his forehead smacked against the wooden table.

For hours on end, Captain Allan , joined by none other than his best friend (and apparently honorary mother), Tom, had been conducting interviews and questioning in the middle of Brussels port. When his last radio operator quit nearly a year before, the crew of the nearby merchant freighter, the _Karaboudjan_ , tried their hand at the job and stocked up on all the material about radios and telegraphs they could find.

Now, the captain was much more desperate.

Tired of ineligible hire and shoddy workmanship, Allan searched desperately for a new radio man, combing through the streets of Brussels and going to the ports offices in search of anyone eager for a job. But, even with countless flyers and _Help Wanted_ signs slapped and stapled around the vast port and in numerous flea markets scattered across the city, the duo of sailors found no such luck of acquiring a new shipmate, or better yet, an eligible radio man.

Sure, people came, hungry for adventure, eager for a job _but_ , were they eligible as a radio man?

 _Maybe_.

If you squinted.

Letting a tired sigh spiral out of his mouth, Allan placed the pencil in between his teeth, wishing he had remembered to grab a new pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket when he placed it in his cabin. As he sank further into his chair, he let his head rest on the worn table he had set up in front of his large freighter, the _Karaboujan_. The noise of countless repairs and improvements rung from inside the steel ship, making interviews inside impossible and interviews outside just as worse. In the blistering afternoon sun, Allan had long since shed off his signature tan long coat, the thick sleeves of his dingy grey turtleneck rolled all the way up to his elbows. Turning his head, Allan could clearly see that Tom, for once, went with the smarter choice and sported his thin yellow shirt, his favorite grey hat left in his cabin for the day.

A bell chimed, gulls screeched and laughed overhead but, silence stretched for an eternity between the pair of exhausted sailors.

It was Allan that broke it first.

" _Seventeen_ men..." He growled, pressing his teeth harder on the wooden pencil, "seventeen men and still not a _single_ _bloody one_ has the _slightest_ idea how to work a telegraph or a radio. You _did_ put in what we wanted on the signs, right?"

"Of _course_ I did," Tom replied, his voice muffled by the piles of application papers he had his nose buried into. "Ernie and I checked every one of them before we stapled them. You think a person would have the slightest about of sense to read the poster the whole way through. They probably stopped at ' _Help Wanted'_ "

Sighing and releasing his iron grip on his poor pencil, Allan stood and stretched. "Well, it's no use just sitting here with nothing to do. Let's at least find _something_ to do in Brussels, while we're still here. Although, we've wasted half of our time already with this bloody _nonsense_."

Lifting his head and wiping off the eraser bits that had somehow clung to his face, Tom gave Allan a queer look. "What about the applications? What are we going to do without a new radio man?"

Sighing, Allan looked at the sky, the laughing gulls, at the strewn papers before turning back to Tom.

" _Forget them,_ " Allan growled, kicking a pebble over the side of the port, "All of them were never going to work out anyway. We can use them for emergency fire starters if we have to, but otherwise, I'm gonna' get rid of them. Probably burn every last scrap of those confounded papers." There was a pause. "As for a new radio man, our luck is thin. We'll have to continue using _you_ as our substitute, although, you do it as well as you can cook..."

Rising to his feet, Tom gave a small irritated _"humph!"_ before he followed Allan, eyes burning imaginary holes into the back of Allan's skull. However, before the worn pair of sailors had gone even a few feet away from their sad, little booth, a sound of sharp, rapid footsteps approached them from behind.

" _Wait!_ Please, _wait_!"

Turning around at the plea, both Tom and Allan were taken back by the peculiar sight. A young man, probably between the age of eighteen and twenty one, was running their way. He wore a sky blue sweater, light brown trousers and a long coat that fluttered and flapped like a banner. On his right side was a satchel, slapping his side and ultimately causing the poor boy to lose his breath faster than he could retrieve it. High above his head, the young man held a torn piece of paper, bent completely over by the force of the wind and how fast the he was running.

By the time he'd reached the pair of dumbfounded sailors, the younger man was completely out of breath, his face almost as red as his ginger tuft of hair peeking out from underneath his brown cap.

"I came...to apply... for a job," he gasped between puffs of fresh air, "I hope I'm not too late..."

"Sorry, kid. We just got-."

Without warning, Allan gasped aloud when a sharp pain shot up his side, the salty sea captain shooting Tom a sideways glare as his first mate retreated his sneaky elbow.

"No, no. You're not too late. Is that your application?" Tom asked with a cheeky smile, pointing the the wrinkled paper still clutched tightly in the youth's hands.

The young man gave a puzzled look before he looked down at his hands and chuckled, "No, no. That's your flyer. Here. This is my application."

To their shock and surprise, the young man produced a stuffed, clean, envelope from his satchel, the youth temporary struggling to pull out the massive folder for Tom to take.

It was so nice and neat, Tom was afraid to touch the application, but, quickly realized he hadn't been making repairs all day long and took it out of the youths small hands.

"Wow. That's impressive." Allan commented aloud, taking the folder from Tom and flipping through the several page packet. Sitting in silence for a moment or two, Allan looked up from his observations and gave a shadow of a smile.

"Thank you, boy. We'll certainly consider it."

With quiet understanding, the two groups began to depart, the wind blown stranger raising his hand as he stepped away.

"Thank you so much... Mister...?"

"Allan," the sharp nosed man replied with a sly grin, " _Captain Allan."_

"And I'm Tom!" Tom called out from behind Allan, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

In response, the young man smiled, a small laugh escaping his lips, "Well, thank you Captain Allan. Tom. Have a good day!"

Giving one last wave, the stranger, still smiling, rushed off in the direction in which he'd came, his energy already restored.

"Goodness," Tom commented, shading his eyes to watch the boy grow into a speck on the horizon, "He seems to be in a hurry."

Not paying any attention to his blabbering first mate, Allan flipped through the contents of the overstuffed folder, completely awestruck, "Skill with assorted equipment..." he read aloud from the resume, "...vehicles, tools and _communication systems... including radios and telegraphs!"_

Tom whistled low, leaning heavily over Allan's shoulder with a playful smirk, "Daww! And to think you were about to give up on him..."

Shooting Tom a heated glare and irritably shrugging his shoulder, Allan grumbled under his breath and shook his head, "Darn... we forgot to get the blasted boy's name!"

"Oh, I don't think that's a problem." Tom said slyly, snatching the papers out of Allan's hands and flipping a few pages back. "See!" He cried, flashing the papers under Allan's crooked nose, "What did I tell you?"

Furrowing his eyebrows and grabbing the edge to get a better look, Allan was greatly relieved to find, at the bottom of the resume, the man's neat signature.

"Tintin..." Allan murmured, looking back over his shoulder to where the boy disappeared to, "Tintin Francis Haddock..."

 _ **AN: SOOOO... What do you guys think? Good? Bad? Need improvements anywhere? I hope you liked to first installment of "Of Crab Tins and Diamonds"! A cover will be updated soon and I hope to get the next installment ASAP. Don't be shy to leave a comment in the comment section below. I just love those little things! They really push me on.**_

 _ **Anywho, until the next chapter I'll just say...**_

 _ **Cheerio!**_

 _ **~Tintinfan101**_

 _ **UPDATE: I just found a few typos! Whoops! :)**_


	2. Ch 2: Of Family and Home

**_A/N: I'm posting the authors note at the end of the chapter! Enjoy this update!_**

 ** _Chapter 2: Of Family and Home  
_**

Back on Marlinspike Drive, a consistent hum rang over the hill.

It was misplaced, strange and didn't go unnoticed by the occupants on the road.

With a flutter, a small group of azure birds sitting in the street finally decided looked up. They'd been sitting in the middle of the dirt road with the hope no one would bother them in their daily brunch. Beady eyes peered left and right, before resting on a glinting light advancing toward them at a rapid pace.

Today, their peace was short lived.

With a broken cord, the small fowl rose up in a flurry of blue feathers and wings, cawing after the speedy journalist that passed.

A smile broke on Tintin's face as he zoomed down the dirt street, wind whipping through his copper toned hair that stuck out underneath his helmet. Unlike the wharf, it was a fairly present day back at home, scattered clouds trailing across the backdrop of the sky.

In his opinion, it was perfect for a ride on his motorcycle.

Tintin slowed to turn onto the long, winding drive of Marlinspike Hall, the manor glimmering agiast the afternoon sun. As he got off his bike, he heard the sound of a dog barking, followed by a loud crash.

"BLUE BLISTERING BARNACLES!"

Tintin smiled and walked up the steps towards the door, his worn blue helmet tucked underneath his arm. On the other side, he heard his canine companion howling and scratching the door. Tintin pushed open the door and was greeted by a white blur leaping onto him with such force, it almost knocked him off his feet.

"Snowy!" Tintin giggled, holding a hand over the terriers snout in an attempt to control his dog's furious licking. The young reporter looked up to see Captain Haddock storming towards him, his teeth clenched in boiling rage.

"Uh oh..."

"Lad," Captain Haddock sighed in exasperation. "That dog of yours needs to learn to be more careful! That vase could've done him in!"

Tintin managed to look behind the Captain to see Nestor sweeping up the shards of said glass vase that had stood on the table near the door. Captain Haddock was right, the vase was huge and uncertainly heavy. Tintin fliched, it could've easily done one of _them_ in if they weren't so careful to avoid knocking it over.

"I'm sorry, about the vase, Captain. It won't happen again."

The Captain's face softened in seeing the lad flushing in embarrassment. He didn't mean to hurt his feelings, especially today. Haddock knew well he could sometimes overreact. "It's alright, my boy." the Captain consoled, a smile playing on his lips as he put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned in close to whisper, "I never liked that vase much, anyway. It was from _'Her'_ if you know who I mean..."

Tintin laughed, all worry slipping away. "I'm glad it wasn't special to you."

"I've been looking for a way to break it since Christmas. Accidentally, of course."

"There's always the bonfire you have on Hallow's Eve."

"Oh, yes, the annual Castafiore Bonfire." Captain Haddock reflected, a hint of mock nostalgia in his eyes. "Those are some good times..."

Ever since he could remember, Bianca had a knack for giving extravagant gifts, usually leaving the receiver speechless in such an honor.

To Haddock, there was no honor in receiving any of her gifts.

But he was certainly left speechless.

Every Christmas, every birthday, it seemed to be the same. Every gift consisted of useless accessories or knick-knacks she had somehow obtained in her travels.

"I saw it and thought about a strong, Captain Cardstock who would love to wear it, no?" She always giggled upon him opening the package with a wide smile.

With a forced grin, the Captain would take the item (scarf, necklace, the occasional ugly hat) and be forced to wear it the duration of her stay. The moment he heard the squeaky wheels of her car die away in the distance, he would rip off the suffocating article and toss it into the back of the closet where it would dust till October, when he would light every single ugly article he received that year from Bianca to make a bonfire for all. The trick-or- treating children loved it most of all, sitting a while in the dew laden grass to watch the dancing flames.

Back in the present, Captain Haddock smirked, "Those little landlubbers have no idea..."

Tintin, chuckling under his breath, shook his head. "And we wonder why you're single."

The sea dog clapped Tintin's shoulder as he shrugged, "Hey, there's a reason I adopted."

"The world should be glad the boy didn't pick up any bad habits." Nestor commented, sweeping the last shards from off he floor.

Tintin's eyes widened. "I'm adopted?"

The Captain and Nestor froze, staring at Tintin in awe. The Captain visibly paled, and Nestor cupped a hand over his forehead.

"Tintin..." Captain Haddock began, taking the boys arm with a firm hand, "Why don't you sit down? We need to talk..."

Then, to Nestor and the Captain's shock, Tintin burst into a fit of laughter, doubling over with the effort of holding back tears.

"What's so funny?"

"I know I'm adopted!" Tintin snickered, wiping away the tears, "Please, Captain, I've known since I was six! You'd think I would have figured it out by now! I look nothing like you!" With a soft sigh, Tintin wiped away his tears and smiled at fondly Captain Haddock. "Even though I'm adopted, you'll always be my papa."

Captain Haddock smiled in relief and wrapped Tintin in a huge hug. "And you'll always be my little boy." As he squeezed tighter, Tintin suddenly realized his feet had left the floor. "You'll always be my little baby boy that we found on the street!" Archibald crooned, swaying back and forward as if he was holding a toddler.

"Captain! Can't... breathe!"

Captain Haddock came back to his senses and set Tintin on his feet again, no doubt the boy a little light headed. "Sorry, lad. I just got carried away."

As they strolled into the living room, realization hit him like a bag of bricks, "So, landlubber, how did your interview go? All went well?"

Tintin shrugged as he settled on the couch, kicking off his shoes to prop his tired feet on the armrest. "It went alright, I guess. There were a lot of other men that looked experienced enough to get the job."

"How do you know?"

"I saw them as I left. I doubt I'll be hired."

Captain Haddock scoffed as he sat down in his favorite armchair, the chair giving a groan in response to his large frame. "That's alright, Tintin. There's plenty of time for you to look for another job if you don't get picked. I promise, that crazy paperboy job you have right now will be history soon."

Tintin nodded. After one of their very important paperboys grew violently ill, his boss assigned him to take the lads place, making journalism very difficult to keep up with.

"I can't wait, Captain. I've always wanted to travel the globe like that. I can just see it. The smell of the sea, the sound of seagulls, the wind in my hair! Maybe I can get a story or two about a salior's life for the paper!"

"Well," the bearded man sighed, a distant look in his eyes, "It's a guarantee that's there's nothing else like it." There was a pause. "Who knows? If you become radio man, perhaps I can get my old radio working again. We might be able to contact each other more than just by letter."

Tintin's eyes wondered over to the other side of the room, a small smile spreading on his lips. By the open window, sat the Captains lonely radio glinted in the sunlight. Nuts and bolts were scattered across the table, and to Nestor's annoyance, a few had fallen to the floor. Tintin knew his papa had been trying to fix the old thing for months, trying every method and trick he knew under the sun, but, with no luck. However, the young man knew Captain Haddock wouldn't give up that easily and come hell or high water, he was going to get that stubborn radio fixed.

Someday.

A faint knock sounded on the door as Nestor returned, a silver tray balanced in his gloved hands.

"Would you like your tea, little sir?" Nestor asked, placing the tray on the coffee table for the pair to see.

"Oh, yes! Thanks, Uncle Nestor, you always know what do bring."

As Tintin reached over to grab his cup, the butler shot Tintin a shadow of a smile, "Please, for the thousandth time, sir, it's just Nestor."

Tintin smiled, "Come on, Nestor. You know you're our family too."

"I know, mister Tintin..." He murmured, picking up the abandoned shoes laying on the carpet. "But, I don't believe I halfway deserve such an honor."

"I do." Tintin whispered, a genuine tone in his voice.

Letting his a chuckle escape his lips, he walked back around the couch. "Thank you, sir. That means alot to me for you to say that."

"Blistering Barnacles! Of course, landlubber!" Captain exclaimed from his spot in his chair, striking a match to light his pipe.

"Another thing, Mr. Tintin..." Nestor murmured.

"What?"

The butlers eyes grew serious, his dark eyes drilling holes into the soles of his socks.

"Get your feet off my sofa."

 **AN:**

 **DON'T MESS WITH NESTOR'S COUCH.**

 **IT'S HIS FAVORITE.**

 **He he! I hope you like the update. I wanted to post it ASAP, even though the chapters a little shorter than I anticipated. I originally wrote it longer than this, but, it was TOO long in my opinion.**

 **Plus I thought this was a good place to stop.**

 **Nestor's my homie, yo.**

 **Anywho, I'm going to update the next chapter earlier to make up for the shortness of this chapter. (I promise it will be more eventful next round!)**

 **So, until the next chapter I'll just say... you guessed it!**

 **Cheerio!**

 **~ Tintinfan101**


	3. Ch 3: Of Telegrams and Fridays

**_A/N_** ** _:_** **_Enjoy this early update_** ** _! Authors Note is at the end of the chapter!  
_**

 ** _Chapter 3: Of Telegrams and Fridays_**

"Have you picked a radio boy yet?"

Surprised, Allan looked up, mouth full of sandwich. "Hm?"

Tom rolled his eyes. After picking up after their booth, (and abruptly tossing a few of the most useless applications away) the pair of companions went out to lunch, stopping at a cafe not too far from the port. The sailors were the only ones sitting outside on the warm afternoon, the cool shade provided by their umbrella a real lifesaver. Ever since they sat down, Tom noticed the quiet aura of concentration around him and Tom had a feeling something was up.

"A radio boy. You know, the reason we sat out in the hot sun all day long today. Ring a bell?"

Allan rolled his eyes, mouth still full of sandwich as he shook his head.

"What about that Tintin boy? He seemed promising."

Allan chewed slowly, downing the last bits of his sandwich with a large gulp, "He was the only one with a lick of sense."

"Like me," Tom grinned.

Allan paused, staring at Tom to see if he was serious. "Uh, yeah. Sure, Tom, like you..."

Tom nodded, a satisfied grin plastered on his face.

Allan rolled his eyes again; man, he was starting to get dizzy. " _Anyway_ , to answer your question, _no_ , I have not picked out a radio boy."

"Well, why not? You have plenty of options!"

"Yeah... I guess so." Allan murmured, picking at the crumbs left on his plate with his fork.

Tom recognized the look on Allan's face and Tom's smile fell, his face determined. "Allan. You _know_ we can't stay here forever."

"I know."

"I get it, it's where we grew up, you don't want to go again." There was an uncertain pause, "I-It's where you met Adel-."

"I _know_ darn it! _You think I don't know?!"_

Tom flinched as Allan's fist slammed on the metal table, the empty coffee cups sitting on the table clattering together. A waiter and a young couple looked up at the commotion, their eyebrows furrowing in confusion before quickly turning away from Allan's heated gaze.

Placing a hand over Allan's clenched fist, Tom looked pleadingly into the sea captain's muddy brown eyes. "Please, Al. I know you're upset, really, I do, but, remember what the boss did last time we were late?" Tom lowered his voice with his head, "He broke your nose."

With a scowl, Allan jerked his hand away, clenching his teeth, "And gave you that ugly scar on your face."

Tom glared at Allan, annoyance seething into his eyes. "That's not funny, Al. This is serious."

Allan smirked at the change of Tom's carefree attitude, "When did you become Captain all of a sudden?"

"Captain?"

"Yeah, _Captain,_ any brilliant ideas?"

Tom rubbed his temples with a tired sigh. He knew he should've asked Doc for an aspirin. "For Pete's sake, I-I don't know. Let's just pick someone and be done with it, okay?"

Allan snorted in disbelief, "Yeah, but who? The man who claimed his wife was a mermaid? None of those men we interviewed today worked for us, Thomas! None of them."

"No, Al," Tom retorted in a soft voice, pulling the stack of papers out of his bag, "We still have _one_..."

* * *

"Tintin!"

Tintin looked up from his hunched position on the desk, his pencil tight in hand. He was trying to write the first rough draft of his next report, but nothing seemed to come together in the last hours. Even with the window by his workspace open, letting in the dazzling sun and afternoon breeze, he still couldn't conjure up a picture perfect intro.

Not a syllable.

"What is it, Captain?" Tintin called towards the cracked door of his bedroom, the light from the hallway flitering through the hole.

"There's a telegram for you!" the husky voice rose up from downstairs, spiraling up the floorboards and over Tintin's tired form.

With a light sigh, Tintin surrendered his fountain pen for the night turned off his desk lamp resting on the faded desk, "Alright, I'm coming."

With a stretch, the reporter got up and made his way to the door, the setting sun casting shadows on all the crumpled balls of paper littering the floor.

Snowy lifted his head from the bed to watch Tintin dodge the parchments but quickly became disinterested, falling back to sleep.

That Sloth.

Forcing the door to open against the tsunami of papers, he made his way down the hallway and descended the steps towards the front door, where the Captain was holding out an envelope.

"Here you go, lad," he said, rumpling Tintin's hair affectionately.

"Thanks, Captain." Tintin chuckled, entering the living room and sitting down on the sofa, careful to avoid putting up his feet on the armrests again. He opened the telegram carefully with a nearby letter opener and started to read.

 _Mr. Tintin,_

 _It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been selected for the job of radio boy aboard the_ Karaboudjan _. Our next voyage will depart from the dock on Friday. In order to get a full tour of the_ _ship, please meet First Mate Tom on the dock at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Congratulations!_

 _-Captain Allan Thompson  
_

Tintin read and re-read the telegram twice to make sure he had seen the message correct.

Without warning, he let out a eardrum-shattering scream.

Immediately, a crash was heard from the kitchen, along with a loud cry of "BLUE BLISTERING BARNACLES!" Moments later, the Captain slid clumsily across the foyer tiles and into the living room, a bucket stuck on his left foot as he brandished his large fists. "WHERE ARE THEY, TINTIN? I'LL PROTECT YOU!"

Tintin caught one of his papa's fists,"Captain, calm yourself! There's no one here!"

Captain Haddock managed to kick the bucket off of his foot. "Then what-?"

Tintin shoved the telegram into the Captain's hands. "Look! Just look!"

The Captain read the note and his eyes slowly widened, his hand with the telegram falling to his side. "Y-You got the job..."

Tintin was about to open his mouth to ask what was wrong but, before he could process what was happening, Tintin was grabbed by Captain Haddock who began waltzing around the room with the startled reporter. "Congratulations, lad! You got the job! Friday!"

"Friday," Tintin agreed in a breathless fit of laughter, glad his adoptive father wasn't about to pass out.

"Friday, Friday, Friday," the Captain started to sing, his head bobbing to the playful tune, "Friday, Friday, Friday... Friday? _WAIT!_ **_Friday?!_ ** Thundering typhoons, that's in two days!"

"I know, Captain! Isn't it exciting?" Tintin grinned, clutching the bearded mans arm.

"FRIDAY? My boy, we have to get you packed!" With ease, let go of his dance partner and begun to pace across the carpet. "You'll need some proper clothes, and a hat, and a scarf, and a coat, and rain boots, lots of rain boots-"

"Captain!"

"And a raincoat, and all of Snowy's things-"

"Captain!"

Nestor opened the door to announce dinner, but, once he saw the Captain pacing, he stopped and stared, dumbfounded at what he saw. The Captain gave him no mind and continued his dizzying habit, his steps a bit faster now as worry knitted his brows.

"Billions of blazes, you'll need to get all these things by tomorrow and-" The middle aged man paused and gasped aloud, "Tintin, what about your books? Your papers? I never read them-" Haddock shot Tintin a horrified glance, _"THEY'LL DUST AWAY!"_

"CAPTAIN! Get a grip on yourself!" Tintin cried, shaking the weathered sea dogs broad shoulders, "I'll only be gone for a few months, it's not like they can keep me on the boat forever! Goodness, you're acting like you're the one who's setting sail!"

Finally coming to his senses, the Captain released his held-up breath and chuckled softly, his raven hair swishing as he shook his head in embarrassment, "Thundering typhoons, you're right, Tintin. I just can't believe my little boy's going away on a trip!"

"Captain," Tintin protested, blushing. "I'm not so little anymore. I can handle it."

"Of course you can, my little autumn leaf. You're a Haddock! ... by adoption, of course."

"Captain!" Tintin cried as he flushed a deep shade of crimson, the pet name thought to be long lost over time resurfacing like a scar. To tell the truth, Tintin didn't mind when the Captain called him by his unique nicknames but, out in public, especially on the playground as a child, he felt a tad embarrassed by them. "Little Autumn Leaf" and "Rosetop" didn't mix well with the jungle gym crowd.

Seeing his embarrassment, Captain Haddock gave a sly, playful, grin, "Oh come on, Tintin! You know those nicknames were cute."

"No they weren't, papa!" Tintin retorted in weak anger, the blush still in his cheeks, "As a child, yes! They're a little old now."

"Aha!" Archibald exclaimed, snapping his fingers, "So you did think they were cute, eh?"

"No!" Tintin responded, getting on his hands and knees to peer underneath the couch where the telegram fluttered off to in thier dance, "I never said that."

The Captain laughed under his breath, "Whatever you say..."

A beat.

"Rosetop."

"Captain!" the young reporter shouted, scrambling to his feet to get away from the voice that whispered in his ear. Captain Archibald Haddock, with all the stregth he could muster, grabbed the young man by the arm, twisting Tintin around to face him.

"My little flame!"

"Papa!"

"My baby carrot!"

"Papa! Stop! Let me go!" Tintin began to laugh, trying to wrestle his arm free from the Captains iron grip. The Captain grinned from ear to ear, staring affectionately into his sons strikingly blue eyes.

"Aye, but, how can I let my baby boy go?" He murmured, releasing his hold on the boy, "I-I'm gonna miss ya, lad."

Rubbing his wrists, Tintin met the mans melancholy gaze before embracing the him in a tight hug.

"I'm gonna' miss you too, papa." Tintin whispered against the warm fabric of the blue turtleneck, the smell of tobacco and Lock Limond wafting up his nostrils. Captain Haddock wrapped his arms around Tintin's small form, giving the top of the reporters head a small kiss.

Moments later, the secretly teary salty sea dog broke the embrace, grabbing Tintin by the shoulders with excitement, "Well! What are we doing standing around for? Lets get a'going!"

"Doing what?"

"Why, packing your luggage of course! I believe we have a spare rucksack in the attic! Let's check it out!"

With a smile, Tintin allowed himself to be led by the hand out of the living room, a spring in the pairs steps. With a silent giggle, Tintin reflected on the amount of times the determined journalist done this to him multiple times, taking him by the hand and thrusting him onto the next adventure thrown their way. And, now, rushing up the steps of Marlinspikes foyer, dinner long forgotten, the young man felt the same bird called adventure fluttering in his ribcage.

 _This one's gonna' be special..._ Tintin thought as the last glimpses of dying sun bathed the pair in red streaks of light.

 _I can feel it._

 ** _A/N:_**

 ** _OMG._**

 ** _THE FEELS!_**

 ** _As you can tell from this chapter I apsolutly ADORE Captain Haddock and Tintin having a father and son relationship. (of course, in this story, Haddock adopted him so... it's kinda' a must. Haha.)_**

 ** _Anywho, I hope you enjoy this update and I want to say I'll resume updating at the end of next month, September. (August is kind of booked at the moment so no early updating this time 'round. Sorry!) Also, I wanted to say sorry for any unseen typos. I wrote this with my tablet (stupid autocorrect!)._**

 ** _Thank you for all the LOVELY reviews so far and thank you for taking the time to read the latest installment. Make sure to tell me what you think so far (if you want, of course. No one's forcing you) and tell me what you hope and anticipate for later chapters! I love to hear from y'all._**

 ** _COMING UP NEXT: Tours of ships aren't always boring and dull, especially if you have Tom for your tour guide. Oh, dear... what misadventures will Tintin and Snowy have next?_**

 ** _Cheerio!_**

 ** _~Tintinfan101_**


	4. Ch 4: Of Tours and Feighters

**AN: enjoy the update!**

 ** _Chapter 4: Of Tours and Freighters_**

The next morning at 9:45, Tintin stood on the docks, anxiously checking his watch.

 _Perhaps I came too early._

 _Perhaps I came too late._

 _Perhaps I misread the telegram and missed out on the tour._

 _If I missed out on the tour, did I lose my opportunity at a job?_

Slowly closing his eyes, Tintin took a deep breath to calm his jittering nerves. No need to panic... he assured himself, opening his eyes once again to watch the activity around him. This is where it told you to meet him. Everything's going to be fine.

Standing near a lamppost, Tintin watched a team of men haul up a grand piano from the deck of a nearby ship, the exposed white keys glittering in the morning sun. With utmost care the waiting men motioned for the crane operator to lower the huge package, their gloved hands guiding the large instrument to the cobblestone ground with a soft thunk. A woman, her hair red as her lipstick, stood off to the side of the working sailors, her face glowing in excitement. She beamed at her package, her delicate hands clasped together near her wide smile.

Without warning, the petite lady ran up to the nearest sailor and wrapped him in a huge hug, the younger man stepping back in surprise. With a chuckle, he nervously patted the back of her white dress in an awkward embrace, careful not to touch her with the tips of his dirty gloves. The other two men gave each other a knowing look, soft chuckles escaping their pressed lips. Realizing what she was doing, the woman quickly stood up, blushing as she attempted to smooth the new wrinkles in his already dingy sweater. She blushed deeper when she caught the man staring back at her in awe, his face and nose turning pink, and quickly pulled her hands away. She apologized in a low voice, the foreign language stumbling over in her mouth. The man simply chortled softly, consoling her back in perfect Russian, the lady's surprise giving way to a look of gratitude.

Watching the pair continue to talk in soft voices, Tintin's mind wondered for the umpteenth time what his mother had looked like.

In his mind, he always pictured her like the woman standing at the port: with a soft voice and gentle touch, a full head of fiery red hair framing her kind face.

However, in reality, Tintin knew she could've looked like anyone.

The Captain never could find out much about the young reporter's biological family, and was reluctant till Tintin was a young lad to sit down and talk about it. He had faint memories about that conversation, full of throat clearing and shifting from Haddock's usually comfy chair as his papa tried to explain the concept of adoption. According to a few salvaged, half-burnt documents police found at the crime scene, she was a teacher to a long lost elementary school, and was married to an unknown man in her early twenties. Everything else, her name, her looks, her background, and even the name of her husband, had been lost fourteen years ago in a terrible house fire.

The only survivor of the tragedy was a toddler aimlessly wandering on the streets of Brussels who called himself "Tintin".

Even his own birth name was alien to him.

Snowy looked up at Tintin expectantly as the seagulls cried all around them, a little pink tongue hanging out of his mouth. Finding himself staring at the happy pair still talking together in the warm sunlight, Tintin turned and glanced again at his watch.

" I know it's hot, boy." Tintin murmured as beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, " but this is where the telegram said that Tom would meet us... He'll be here any minute now."

A buoy sounded, a sailor shouted in the distance.

"Any minute now..."

Standing only a few moments more in the unrelenting sunlight, the young reporter wandered over to the edge of the port, peering along the edge as waves slapped noisily against the sides.

With a sigh, Tintin lowered himself onto the warm concrete, allowing his legs to heavily dangle over the edge, the dark blue swells sending mist on the bottom his soles.

The boy had to admit, the sea was probably one of his favorite places to visit. As a child, his papa would occasionally take him to the port for a day, taking in all the sights and sounds with overflowing excitement as Haddock told him one of his many stories of the high seas.

Tintin had never fully been able to understand why the well-known Captain Haddock had given up his job as a sailor to raise a young boy. When Tintin had posed this question to the captain, Haddock had simply smiled and replied, "I have more important things than traveling the world. My life right now is here, at Marlinspike. The world can wait for me."

Tintin broke out of his reverie to see that Snowy had joined him on the edge, his white fuzzy paws hanging over the drop-off.

"Look at that, Snowy..." Tintin whispered, the silhouette of a distant freighter forming on the horizon. "Soon, that's where we'll be. Can you see it?"

Snowy barked in excitement.

"Ahoy! Tintin!" Tintin looked up to see Tom striding toward him down the port, a hand above his head.

Tintin smiled in relief, standing up quickly. "Hi, Mr. Tom, how are you doing?"

Tom came closer to the boy, nodding his head slightly. "Fine, fine. Sorry I'm late, I got caught up loading some cargo."

Tintin shook his head, "No. No, it's fine. Snowy and I were just-."

"Ready to start the tour?"

Tintin blinked in surprise, nodding his head slowly. "Y-Yeah. Sure. Would Snowy be able to come along too?"

As if for the first time, Tom noticed the little terrier at the boy's feet. He stared at Snowy for a moment. "The dog can come," he said, then turned and began to walk away. Tintin had no choice but to follow as Tom led him along the dock, past the woman and her piano, to the awaiting Karaboudjan at the far end of the port.

"So, what kind of cargo were you loading?" Tintin asked as they walked up the gangplank, a crane shifting lazily overhead.

"Oh, all sorts of different things. Mostly crab tins."

"Crab tins?"

"Yep. Crab tins. Our ship has the best brands but, trust me, after eating it for a few months, you'll get tired of it." Tom chuckled.

"So-"

"This is the crew." Tom interrupted again, making a sweeping gesture towards the men that'd gathered on the deck. They crowded in all around, drawn to a new voice coming from the gangplank leading onto deck, the shorter sailors pushing their way to the front to get a better look at the unexpected visitor.

The group of men looked at Tintin with masked surprise, their tired, sun beaten faces taking in his lean frame with doubt. There was at least forty of them, all at standing a head taller than the young reporter, and held twice the muscle he had. From the absence of sound, it seemed the entire ship had gathered on deck, each sailor waiting patiently for the boy to say something, anything of interest. Tintin, his confidence diminishing to the size of a marble, gave the ragtag group of men a friendly wave and large smile.

"Hello! I'm Tintin... Your new... Radio operator?"

Silence.

A few whispers.

Then silence again.

Tintin's hand fell back to his side.

"Okay!" Tom exclaimed, stepping in front of the gathering of sailors, giving a wide, forced grin, "That's enough excitement for today! Right now, I gotta take our new mate on his first tour of the ship. How about that, eh?"

One by one, the men shook their heads, all activity and noise resuming as it was before, this time a few eyes watching him a little harder as their hands worked.

Tintin, gave Tom a look, completely confused at the reaction he had received.

"What was that about, Tom?"

Tom, turning away, either didn't notice or ignored the question completely, and lead the shell shocked Tintin down a winding and dimly lit passageway .

"We'll start at the bottom and work our way up to the radio room." Tom commented, excitement slowly edging back into his voice.

"Alright," said Tintin, a little perplexed at the whole event so far.

A couple flights of stairs later, Tom opened one door at the end of the hallway to reveal a room full of engines and steam, the loud hiss making Snowy step back a little from the metal door. "This..." Tom began, sweat shining his large nose, " is the engine room,"

Tintin almost gasped aloud at the large space, the noise of whacking wrenches and tightening screws echoing in the fall space. The large engine was completely still, the ship seeming to sleep without the magnificent machine.

"You won't usually need to be down here, but it's good for you to know where it is, in case you need to run an errand here."

Tintin nodded, and Tom closed the door, muffling the deafening clamor of workers unseen. "The blokes in charge of the engines, Billy and Ernie, are a bit hard of hearing. Sometimes ya gotta speak up a bit for them to understand you."

"Why?" Tintin asked, following quickly behind Tom as he quickened his pace.

"The engines," Tom explained, frowning deeply, "it's ruined some of their hearing. Shame really."

"Oh..." Was all that Tintin replied, feeling like a dunce for asking such a question.

By this time, they had reached the next floor, Tintin and his white dog was a little winded. Tom turned, "You alright, Red? Mind if I call you Red?"

"N-no, I don't mind." Tintin gasped, struggling to catch his breath. "And it's nothing, really. Just... these stairs..."

Tom laughed heartily, "You'll get used to it soon enough. Plenty of time to work it out."

Tintin, stitches still present in his chest, trailed behind the looming Tom like a loyal puppy, the scarred sailor holding a small smirk on his lips.

"This is the hold," Tom said, pointing to a set of identical doors on the left as they passed, "That's where we keep all of the goods to be transported. It extends across the whole floor, so there's more than one door to get inside, just in case you're coming from the other end of the hallway. Sharkey and Pedro are in charge of the goods, making sure they all reach the destination, securing them, et cetera, et cetera… some goods are held above deck. Only in certain emergencies are we to move them. "

The pair continued down the hallway to another set of stairs and went up (much to the reporters and dogs dismay), arriving at a wider, slightly cleaner, hallway than before.

"This level is basically your home for your stay on the Karaboudjan. " Tom explained with a merry tone in his voice, "There's the mess hall, with a few tables set up for pool and cards, games like that. Here's the kitchen, which is where you'll usually find Ming, our chef. Right next to that is our personal hold, where we keep our own supplies of food. And here," he exclaimed with excitement as he opened another door, "...is the sleeping quarters."

Tintin had never seen a more crowded room.

At least thirty sleeping spaces were set up in the tiny room, with barely enough space to walk around. A giant, stuffed shark hung amid the extinguished lamps on the ceiling, a few of its teeth and glass eye missing. Empty bottles of an unidentified liquid rolled across the floor with the gentle rocking of the waves, and the beds seemed to be swaying back and forth on their own, as well. Tintin was surprised none of the sailors had fallen out of their bunks yet.

 _Or maybe they had…_ he thought to himself, but quickly pushed this thought aside.

"A bit cramped," Tom admitted, kicking aside a moldy sandwich that'd gotten wedged between the door and wall, " but you really won't spend much time in here anyway. Trust me."

He quickly swung the door closed and continued up the stairs to the main deck, where they then clambered up to the final level. "This is the captain's quarters, right next to the control room. That there is the infirmary, which, along with the kitchen, is the cleanest part of the boat. Ming and Doc keep their workplaces pretty clean."

 _That's a relief…_ Tintin thought.

"And this is where you'll spend most of your time, in the radio room." Tom opened yet another creaking door and showed Tintin the layout of the room. Together they reviewed how to work the multiple radios across the room, flipping and turning switches and lights on and off as they spoke. As the pair turned to leave, a single rat scurried out from under one of the tables and ran out of the room. Tom jumped backwards away from the table as Snowy barked and chased after the rat.

"Snowy!" Tintin called, chasing after his canine companion with wide eyes, losing sight of him quickly.

"Hey!" yelled a voice from down the hallway. Tintin skid to a stop in his mad chase, turning around to face the booming voice. Standing in front of him was a man with short black hair and brown eyes. He wore a grubby long coat and a black captain's cap that sat crookedly on his head. Allan, his face red, glared at the proud form of Snowy, a dead rat in between his teeth.

"Who's dog is this?" He asked as Snowy skulked away towards his master.

"M-mine, sir," Tintin stuttered, scooping up Snowy in his arms. "I'm sorry. I should have asked before I brought Snowy along."

Tom hurried towards them, finally catching up. "Captain Allan, this is our new radio boy, Tin-"

"I know who he is, Tom. I interviewed him, remember?" Allan scrutinized Tintin again, the rat still hanging limply from Snowy's jaws. "We don't allow animals on this ship."

"I'm sorry, sir. Snowy can stay at home while I'm away."

"Allan," Tom muttered, leaning in close to Allan's ear. "The dog could help with the rat problem that we've been having. He's already killed one, and they haven't even moved aboard the ship!"

Allan looked at Tintin and Snowy for a few moments before sighing and gruffly saying, "Fine, the dog can come."

"Oh, thank you, sir!"

"But if he causes any problems-"

"He won't, sir, I'll keep a close eye on him, I promise!"

"You'd better." Allan growled as he turned and walked away, giving the smiling dog one last look.

Tintin gave Tom a questioning look. "Is Captain Allan usually that grouchy?"

Tom watched as Allan began to yell at sailors on the main deck, all scurrying to obey orders. "Honestly, I'd say he's in a splendid mood right now." Tom smirked as the wind picked up, the sound of seagulls echoing overhead.

"He loves yelling at people."

 _ **A/N: Oh yes.**_

 _ **It's true.**_

 _ **Allan does love yelling!**_

 _ **LOL. Hope you enjoyed the update. I look forward to updating again in October, maybe a little sooner. Idk, keep an eye out though! We'll see... :)**_

 _ **Anywho, now, it is time for sleep.**_

 ** _Goodnight and until next time I'll just say..._**

 ** _Cheerio!_**

 ** _~ (a very sleepy) Tintinfan101_**


	5. Ch 5: Of Bombshells and Tickle Fights

**_AN: Enjoy the update!_**

 ** _Chapter 5: Of Departures and Goodbyes_**

 _Red._

 _It was everywhere._

 _On the ground, on the wall, and spreading across the ceiling like a virus. A single boy stared, thunderstruck at the fiery destruction raging like a wild animal around him. It rumbled and hissed as it unfurled across the carpet, the old patch of cloth catching alight in a flash of orange and yellow. Standing up in his crib, the red-haired toddler wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of smoke, finding it hard to call out for his still sleeping parents._

 _In fact, with every second, it was getting harder and harder to catch his breath.  
_

 _Everything was getting slow._

 _Fuzzy._

 _Warm._

 ** _BANG!_**

 _With a gust of hot air, the door to the bedroom swung open, the boy catching sight of the dark figure standing in the door frame._

 _Gasping, a woman, her face and clothes smothered in ash, rushed over to the oblivious child, coughing as she accidentally inhaled a large lungful of smoke._

 _Quickly, she scooped the half-conscious lad in her arms, the boy still clinging tightly to a dingy, once white, stuffed animal resting in his crib. Eyes watering too much to make out her features, the boy, now realizing the urgency of the situation, buried his face into her shoulder, a fearful sob escaping his shaking, coughing form._

 _With a gentle hand, she soothed his unruly hair, speaking muffled words of encouragement as the woman turned back the way she came, dodging the licking flames as best as she could.  
_

 _They never made it._

 _Without warning,_ _ _the boys terrified shrieks rendered the air as the damaged floorboards finally gave way, sending the woman and child headfirst into the gaping hole and__ _ _the spiraling_ nothingness below._

That's when Tintin woke up with a start.

With beads of sweat lining his pale, clammy, face, the young reporter quickly realized he wasn't in the burning house.

He was riding on a local bus towards Marlinspike.

He was in one piece.

With a sigh, Tintin leaned back in his chair, slowly calming his jittering nerves as he took in his surroundings. Not much was going on. A few scattered passengers sat in the squashed space, the bus steadily bumping over the potholes littered across the dusty road. An elderly woman who sat toward the front, steadily worked a pair of knitting needles in her frail hands, her large brimmed hat obscuring her facial features as she concentrated intently on her next masterpiece. Next, a professor, (presumably a professor, Tintin had no way of telling) with his glasses sitting atop of his forehead, rested in the back of the bus, his calloused hand placed carefully over a stack of papers in his lap to keep them from fluttering away. Finally, across the aisle from Tintin, a father and son dozed in their seats, the fathers large hand resting atop of the boys head rested securely in his lap.

Silently, Tintin felt himself grow a little jealous of the sleeping pair - gifted with the experience of peaceful sleep. As long as he could remember, Tintin always had the same lurid nightmare, the dream springing up like a wound trap at random parts of his life, the young man jokingly calling it the "Jack-in-the-box" nightmare. No matter how long it had been since it last occurred, every detail, every result, was exactly the same: the monstrous fire, the featureless woman, the abyss...

After all these years, he thought he'd destroyed that wind-up nightmare...

Granted, the amount of times he had seen it when he was older paled in comparison in how frequently he'd seen the dream many years ago, leaving the young Tintin fighting with the invisible flames, the sweaty sheets. With a crash, his adoptive father would come barreling in to see the lad had fallen out of bed, paper white and shaking with fear. Haddock would waste no time to gather him up in his strong arms, rocking and reassuring the startled lad everything was alright.

He was safe now.

 _Indeed,_ Tintin thought, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he scratched behind Snowy's soft ears, the terrier grinning in his lap, _Haddock kept to his word. I will always be safe at Marlinspike_.

Watching the familiar stone fence begin to pass him on his right side, Tintin felt the local bus rumble to a stop, the brakes squeaking loud enough to rouse the few half awake passengers still aboard.

"Marlinspike stop! Anybody gettin' off?" the high pitched voice of the bus driver cried, his thin mustache twitching impatiently in the rear view mirror.

Plucking Snowy from his lap as he stood, Tintin fished a few spare euros from his pocket, tipping the driver before the faded blue bus sped off, sending a cloud of dust flying directly in Tintin's face. The boy sneezed, wiping his watering eyes with his handkerchief as he turned toward home, the main gate visible in the near distance.

As the duo strolled the rest of the distance home, dark clouds gathered overhead in the mid-morning light, casting a long shadow over Marlinspike Hall. In the distance, the manor looked like nothing more than the silhouette of a cardboard cutout, the glittering home diminished in the low light of an oncoming storm. Swollen and sagging low over the estate, the soft mass of thunderclouds reminded Snowy of a oversized water balloon, bringing promises of mud puddles, races in the rain, and the occasional joy of tracking mud in the house (Nestor was too observant with his cleaning to let him get away with it often).

But, to Tintin, the slow moving billows were only a device to damper his already dreary day.

At the low sound of another thunderclap, the tweeting birds retreated to whatever dugout or hole they called home as little raindrops began to sprinkle down to the earth.

After a few large raindrops flattened Tintin's ginger quiff, the reporter gave a remorseful sigh, wiping his damp face with the edge of his sleeve. He stopped walking, kicking a clod of dirt in disgust.

Seeing his master slow down, Snowy stopped his trotting on the beaten driveway, the terrier's beady eyes full of concern. He woofed softly, pawing the packed sod with anticipation. The young man just continued to stare blankly at the ground, rivulets of rain making their way down his cheeks. The terrier barked again, louder this time, turning in a full circle, the stub of his tail wagging viciously left and right. As if coming out of a trance, Tintin lifted his head and wiped his eyes.

"You're right, boy." Tintin said, beginning to walk again, "We have to get home. The captain will start to worry 'bout us."

Rushing down the muddy drive and up the slippery stairs, Tintin closed his eyes against the rain as he shoved his keys in the door-lock and pushed open the cumbersome door, quickly rushing in and pressing the door back to it's proper place. Sighing deeply, Tintin, with his eyes still closed, leaned heavily against the entrance for support, his longcoat heavy from the sudden storm that'd drenched them both.

When he finally decided to open his eyes, the young reporter felt his mouth fall open in shock.

"Wh-What happened here?" He asked aloud himself, Snowy already running off to investigate.

Marlinspike manor was a complete and utter bombshell.

Stacks of clothes were piled high in baskets, shopping bags and paper packages strewn across the tile floors in a tital wave of empty papers. Snowy, already sniffing through documents stacked in lopsided piles, gave a queer look at some of the most random items, each one earning a cautious nudge with his nose. As Tintin took a gander at all the piles scattered around the foyer, a sharp noise sounded to his right and he turned to face the source.

Nestor, his face red with strain, was struggling to drag a large brown rucksack, the unidentifiable objects clinking and clashing inside. The sack was about as big as he was, impossible to throw over his shoulder with knocking him over with the excess weight. Without warning, the butler lost his grip on the burlap sack, flying backwards and landing onto his back with a hallow thud. Tintin, with a half stifled gasp, rushed over to the butlers side, supporting his head and neck up in his hands.

"Nestor! Are you alright?"

Groaning and rubbing the back of his throbbing head, Nestor looked up and gave Tintin a weak, reassuring smile. "I'm fine, master Tintin. Really."

With a firm grip, Tintin helped Nestor to his feet, the man a still a little woozy from his slip. Nestor momentarily staggered on his feet before Tintin caught his arm and lead him to the nearest chair in the foyer to rest in.

"What's going on here?" Tintin asked Nestor, gesturing toward the large piles of junk scattered in the foyer. Snowy, moving away from a single boot, stuck his head inside the rucksack the poor butler had dropped, the dog glad the two humans sitting in the corner were giving him no mind.

Confused for a moment, Nestor peered at the piles in dismay before shaking his head, a sarcastic chuckle escaping his mouth, "Your father has lost his mind..."

"What do you mean?"

"He insisted we bring everything up from the cellar." Nestor sighed, wincing at the bruised spot on the back of his head, "I believe he just misses you already Master Tintin. He's been a different man since he's heard the news..."

Frowning, Tintin turned and disappeared momentarily in the kitchen before returning with an ice pack wrapped neatly in a spare washcloth. Tintin, with careful precision, placed the ice pack on the back on Nestor's skull, the butler giving a shadow of a smile in return.

"Thank you, sir." He murmured, a humored expression forming on his lips as he placed his rough, calloused hand over Tintin's smaller one holding the wrapped ice pack in place.

The pair turned at the sound of a crash and the faint curse of "Blistering Barnacles" coming from the living room. Nestor, blinking slowly, turned back to Tintin, pleading eyes masked with his usual placid expression. Seeing his chance, Snowy, with a sly grin, trotted his way to the kitchen door, squeezing himself inside and out of sight.

"He refuses to listen to my advice, Master Tintin. Perhaps you can talk some sense back into him? If he'd listen to anyone, it'd be you."

Tintin patted Nestor's shoulder in reassurance, "Of course."

There was a pause.

"Don't worry about this mess, Nestor. Go ahead and cook dinner. My father and I will take care of this."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Positive."

With all concern chased away, Nestor shakily got back up to his feet, a small smile playing on his lips as he patted the boy on the arm.

"You're my saving grace, sir." the butler whispered in a soft voice, the older man quickly turning and walking towards the kitchen as Snowy's hungry barks echoed from the pantry.

Once he was sure the distant commotion in the kitchen died down, Tintin turned back to the living room door, rapping his knuckles softly against the wood. When he got no reply, the young man turned the doorknob and creaked the door open to nothing more than a slit.

"Papa? Captain, I'm home."

"Oh! Tintin, my boy, come in! Come in!"

Smiling in relief the crash he had heard earlier _wasn't_ his father's unexpected doom, Tintin opened the door, looked inside, and felt a surprised laugh escape his lips.

" _Captain?_ Whatever are you doing?"

Legs bent, arms outstretched and straining, Archibald Haddock held the decapitated head of a coat of armor, the knight's head clean off the rest of the body, which lay in scattered pieces across the hardwood floor.

"Oh, _nothing..._ " Captain Haddock answered in a gasp, his face flushing as he staggered left and right to gain his balance. "Just helping this poor fellow _pull himself together."_ Smirking, the Captain raised his eyebrows, giving himself hearty laugh at his personal joke, Tintin simply rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.

"Here," Tintin giggled, coming to his father's side, "let me help you with that."

With a smile, the pair lowered the surprisingly heavy head, the Captain releasing a breath of relief once it was safely on the ground.

"Whew! Thank ya', laddie. I didn't know how longer I could go without dropping it." The Captain commented, plopping himself down in the nearest armchair not covered in junk. In fact, as Tintin took in his surroundings, he began to realize the explosion of stuff inside the foyer didn't compare to the atomic bomb that'd obliterated the living room.

Piles of books, papers, tables and chairs is what took up at least half of the space, each piece of furniture, save the Captain's armchair, was overturned and resting on it's side. A worn, brown trunk sat on the floor near the armchair, filled to the brim with so much stuff the lid could not be closed all the way down.

"Captain," Tintin began in humored shock, "I've only been gone since this morning... What on earth have you two been doing all day?"

Looking up at the boy, the sea dog smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, "We've been helping you pack, of course!"

"Helping me... pack?"

"Yes."

"You mean...for my trip on the _Karaboudjan_?"

"No Tintin, for your trip to the moon, **_of course for your trip on the Karaboudjan!_** "

"But, papa-."

"No buts, Nestor and I are helping you pack. That's that."

"But, Papa, I-"

"It's a big trip after all, and by Neptune I'm going to make sure you're securely packed and ready."

Sighing, Tintin bent down and pulled the heavy trunk out, opening it up to meddle through it's contents.

"But, _papa_ , I can't bring this trunk! It's too big!"

"It is _not_ too big!"

"I can only bring _a_ suitcase, Captain." Tintin began to explain in exasperation as he pulled out an old eyeglass, setting it aside with a frown, "and that means one."

"But-"

 _"One."_

There was a sound of breath being released through his nostrils, as Captain Haddock balled his fists at his sides.

"Thundering Typhoons, Tintin! You're so stubborn sometimes! Why won't you let me do this? I'm trying to _help_ you!"

"By _what?_ **Destroying the house?!** "

"Yes! _Wait!_ No! That not what I-."

"I appreciate your concern, Captain, I do, but, I believe I got this one under control."

"Well _maybe_ you can pack your suitcase _yourself!"_

"Maybe I will!"

"Fine."

"Fine."

 _"Fine!"_

 ** _"Fine!"_**

Settling back in his chair, Captain Haddock huffed as he grumbled incoherently under his breath, his arms crossed firmly over his broad chest. Turning with an irritable _"humph!"_ of his own, Tintin, frustrated with his unsuccessful day, at his father's overreacting, began in a weak attempt to clean up the mess the sea dog had made. For several minutes the upset reporter and the sea dog were silent, the only sound coming from Tintin who was determinedly to going through the overstuffed trunk, cheeks steadily growing red and actions becoming more mechanical with every handful of useless junk he came up with. In the end, he only made the mess worse, releasing a muffled shout as he shoved everything back to where it came from, placing his head in his hands as he plopped back onto the faded carpet.

However as quickly as it came, Tintin's anger and frustration crawled to a stop, the young man releasing a slow, steady breath to calm himself back down. He looked over his shoulder to check on the Captain who was still seated in the same glowering position, muddy eyes cast downward and eyebrows furrowed together in reflected frustration.

"Papa?" Tintin asked, relieved when the salty sea dog met his gaze. "I'm sorry. I know shouldn't have fussed with you." There was a pause as Tintin rubbed the side of his arm, "It's just...Today wasn't as great as I'd hoped..."

Tintin looked away from the Captain, the feeling of guilt welling in the pit his stomach. The lad meant what he said. He knew his father was only trying to take care of him, to protect him, to show him that he cared, but, sometimes, this lead the pair into the occasional bickering and arguing parents and their children exchanged with each other in every family. Sometimes, however, he felt the sea dog took it a little too far, going overboard and diving headfirst into a sea of panic as Papa Bear came out in a crazed frenzy to shield his his twenty-one-year-old cub from whatever danger threatened to hurt him.

Suddenly, the melancholy reporter felt something heavy resting on his shoulders and looked to find Captain Haddock, concerned, sitting down next to him on the antique rug with his large arms wrapped around his shoulders.

"I'm sorry too..." He murmured, pulling the boy closer to his broad chest, Tintin resting his head on his shoulder. "I go overboard and I panic. I just..."

Arichibald Haddock trailed off, his eyes softening, "It's just because I love you too much, laddie... I admit it. I don't want you to fly away, but... if I hold you back with what _**I**_ want, then you never will. Hell, you'd be miserable."

Tintin looked up at the Captain's glistening eyes, as dark and deep as the sea itself, "And I _know_ we both don't want that."

"Papa, I..."

Before the young man could finish, the mischievous sea captain snuck a raspberry on Tintin's cheek, the soon-to-be sailor shell-shocked before laughing aloud.

"Captain!"

"Sorry!" The retired sailor exclaimed, quickly locking Tintin's head in a strong choke hold, "I just couldn't help it! In fact..."

"Don't you dare!"

"In fact, _my baby carrot_ , ** _I'm gonna' do it again!"_**

A squeal of giggles tumbled out of Tintin's mouth as the Captain attacked him with several raspberries running up and down his cheek and forehead, each one earning another squeal of delight.

"Captain! Stop!"

"Never!"

"Captain! Let me _\- ha ha-_ let me go!" Tintin desperately pleaded, both of his hands struggling to pry the strong arms from around his chest and neck.

"Never by thunder!" The Captain cried victoriously, wrestling with the lad for the upper hand, "I am Captain Archibald Haddock of the seven seas! Fear me!"

Somehow, the reporter slipped from the older sailor's grasp, but, not before he was caught and unexpectedly wrestled to his back on the ground.

"Oh! Are you really?" Tintin retorted, a smirk forming on his lips.

"Yes!"

 _"Are you really?"_

"Of course I am! Now, surrender your ship, pirate, or I will be forced to _persuade_ you..."

"Oh yeah?!" Tintin asked in mock anger, pushing against the Captain's chest, "What will make me _possibly_ -."

Without warning, the Captain dropped right atop of Tintin's chest, all the breath being knocked out of him, as the Captain pinned the lad underneath him with nothing more than his weight. It was times like this the Captain was glad he didn't follow the doctors advice about losing some unwanted weight. Tickle fights and wrestle matches became easy, of course, the Captains greatest weapon was turning anyone into a human pancake with his pudgy belly and tall, muscular frame.

"Told you," Captain Haddock crooned, crossing his feet at the ankle.

"Why...are you...so...heavy?!" Tintin gasped, as he attempted to push the Captain off of himself without prevail.

"My taste for sweets and Loch Lomond is a dangerous combination. Surrender?"

"Ha! You wish!"

"Then I'm afraid you leave me with no other choice but to stay here."

"Papa!" Tintin cried in annoyance as he struggled under the man's massive weight. As he squirmed Captain Haddock propped himself up on the elbows, resting his head in his hand was he observed his nails.

"You only have to say the magic words."

"What?"

"You know what I mean." Haddock laughed, rolling onto his back and smirking as he felt the boys arms and legs squirm just a little more.

Tintin sighed, "Fine! _Fine!_ Red Rackham is a scalawag!"

"Come again?"

" _RED RACKHAM IS A SCALAWAG!_ You happy?" Tintin shouted, a soft chuckle escaping at the end.

With great relief, Tintin felt the giant weight off his chest lift, and for a few seconds lay sprawled out on the ground, catching his breath.

"See?" Haddock crooned, as he hoovered over Tintin's flushed face, "It wasn't so hard!"

With a mock growl, Tintin playfully pushed the bearded face away, pressing a hand to his ribs. "I used to remember I was the one who usually won that game."

Haddock with a deep chortle, wrapped an arm around Tintin's form again, "Sorry, lad. Must've had sore luck this time."

"As if!" Tintin interjected, teasing the Captain by knocking off his cap, "I don't believe using your fat as a weapon of mass destruction was a valid move in the rulebook."

"Aye," Captain Haddock stated, leaning back on his hands, "Perhaps that's true. But, we were both much younger when it was established... much younger."

In nostalgia, the pair sat in stunned silence as their eyes filtered around the room, taking in every junk pile and crooked mess (not excluding the one they'd accidentally created in their playful-scuffle) with weary eyes. With a tired sigh, Haddock stood, scratching the top of his head.

"Well, I guess I'll leave you to pack, Tintin. Nestor probably needs help... with... um...something..."

As the Captain turned to leave, Tintin caught him on the sleeve of his black jacket, quickly pulling him back.

"Captain..." Tintin began, softly, as he stared at his feet, "I-I wanted to ask...um..."

Captain Haddock raised his eyebrows, silently waiting until the young reporter finally looked back up, a small, warm, smile etched upon his face.

"Will you help me pack?"

 ** _AN: You would not BELIEVE the amount of times I've fangirled while writing this chapter! They. Are. Adorable! *high pitched screaming*_**

 ** _Anywho, I hoped you enjoyed this chapter as much as I liked writing it (dear Lord it took FOREVER), it's the longest chapter yet (almost 4,000 words! wow!) So, anywho, expecting alot more to be happening in the next chapter out. Sorry about no action or anything of the sort, gotta get through these intro chapters first (ugh!)._**

 ** _Well, I guess that's it for now, until next month I'll just say._**

 ** _Cheerio!_**

 ** _~Tintinfan101_**

 ** _COMING UP: Tintin finally departs from his childhood town of Brussels and is entering a new life out on sea! However, no one said it'd be easy and not everyone is happy that the ambitious young reporter and his curious dog is on board... Can he fit it with his new crew? Only time will tell...  
_**


	6. Ch 6: Of Coffee and Goodbyes

_**A/N: Enjoy the update!**_

 ** _Chapter 6: Of Coffee and Goodbyes_**

Save for the excess amount of seagulls parading the upper decks, Tom found early mornings to be an enjoyable experience. To the weathered sailor, the upper deck of the _Karaboujan_ was a quiet, private, place where he could retreat from the rest of the crew, even if it was only for an hour.

But, sadly, on "Departure Days", as Tom liked to call them, the tranquil peace the morning sunrise offered was nowhere to be found.

Bustling and buzzing, Brussels port was anything but relaxed.

Men of all shapes and sizes were scurrying and shuffling upon the open, main deck of the _Karaboujan_ , shouting orders and hauling up numerous boxes and crates to be delivered to different stops on their upcoming round trip. Cradling a tin mug of coffee in his calloused hands, Tom watched all the activity with half lidded eyes, several days of backbreaking labor finally catching up to him.

 _But it's no matter,_ Tom mused, taking a gulp of steaming, black coffee, _I won my day off fair and square._

It was tradition, that the night before each departure from port, the sailors would play a game of poker, bets consisting of whatever they could fish out of their worn out pockets and starved wallets. However, the most popular form of bidding was making promises, written and signed on scrap slips of paper. Smiling, Tom silently congratulated himself of his sweet victory of the final round of last night's poker: a cup of coffee, a handful of wrinkled cash and a full day off of work. Smirking as he took another sip, Tom wondered how the losers of the game were holding up doing double work down below.

 _Surely they're sorry that-_.

Sputtering, Tom almost dropped his mug when he caught sight of three figures strolling toward the _Karaboujan_ on the docks below, one of the men's auburn hair, blazing brightly in the morning light, instantly recognizable.

The young man walked heavily on the cobblestone port, two older, taller men following close behind. One of them, a bearded man in his late fifties, looked after Tintin with an indecipherable expression, a small canteen of whiskey sticking out of his back pocket. The second, nearly bald, man, adjusted his grip on the brown suitcase, following the pair a little ways back. With a visible sigh, the ginger quiffed boy stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face the two men who'd accompanied him there. From up above, each man seemed to be touched by Madeus, their clothes bathed in the golden glow of the rising sun. Softly, tenderly, the trio talked among themselves, the tallest man of the holding a soft, but strong, smile. Even the butler, (Tom only assumed he was a butler by the regal way he dressed) held a bright expression, the corners of his mouth rising in a shadow of a grin. Without warning, Tintin, his merry expression faltering, rushed over to embrace the tallest man in a massive hug. Wiping tears from his own eyes, the bearded man hugged the boy back, shushing his trembling form as he rubbed small, soothing, circles on his back. Breaking the embrace, the boy ran over to the butler as well, enveloping the uniformed man in a strong embrace. Surprised, the butler stood completely still before, with a concealed sob, wrapped his arms around Tintin's form, pressing his lips against the side of the boy's head. Slowly breaking apart, the balding man, misty eyed, held the boy by the shoulders, murmuring and patting him gently on the back before Tintin, wiping his eyes, stepped back into place once again.

No words were said.

No one moved.

Silence was dominant until, Tintin, face determined and glistening in the light, bent down and picked up his battered suitcase, turning and stalking away as fast as he could.

Suddenly, the bearded man shouted, fingers digging in his pockets as he rushed over to the boy's side. Tintin, not wishing to go through the whole ordeal again, took a few steps away from the man before seeing the man's hand, clasped tightly, holding out an object, clasped tightly in his fist, for him to take. Gently, the middle-aged man grabbed Tintin's free hand, pressing the unidentifiable object in his palm before, one by one, the man secured the boy's fingers around it. Exchanging a last embrace, a final kiss, Tintin, tears streaming down his youthful face, rushed away from the two men and up the gangplank, the pair looking after him with a faint, trembling smile. The butler, emotions stirring beneath the surface, placed a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder, the bearded man's breath hitching in his barrel chest as the boy disappeared in the throng of shouting, brusque sailors.

Looking out at the whole scene from above, Tom found himself utterly dumbfounded.

"He-He has a _family?"_ Tom managed to murmur aloud, his eyes wide and round as dinner plates.

A family, _yes,_ that included a strong father and a collected butler. People who _loved_ and _cared_ about him.

People who would want him back.

 _This isn't good..._ Tom stated silently to himself, his gaze shifting down to his feet and boring into the holes in the tops of his shoes.

A seagull screeched.

A buoy rung.

Tom remained still.

"I have to tell Allan." Tom finally resolved, forcing himself to part from his perch, to not look at the bearded man standing on the docks, smiling as he waved goodbye to his only son.

The whistle blew.

The engines began to growl.

Tom poured out his coffee.

 _No, this isn't good at all…_

* * *

Tintin knew they were gone, he just couldn't believe it.

Haddock and Nestor, Marlinspike, his home, all gone.

Well, not truly gone.

It just felt that way, at least.

Blinking against the light, Tintin stood at the back of the _Karaboudjan_ , hazily watching as the large propellers left a trail of sea foam in it's wake. Cheeks moist, Tintin directed his focus in the far distance, the line between land and sky becoming more indistinguishable with every passing minute. At Tintin's side, Snowy leaned against his suitcase, his beady black eyes observing the straggling seagulls that followed the wake of the merchant ship. From this spot Tintin had waved his father goodbye, exchanging last minute "I love you"s and well wishes over the sound of the roaring engine, the Captain jogging after the ship with Nestor in tow. The loyal butler could barely keep up with Haddock, sheer luck the only factor in managing to grab his masters coattail before he could tumble over the end of the port.

Wiping his eyes for the umpteenth time, Tintin finally managed to open his palm, staring at the trinket inside. It was the Captain's silver locket, dimmed and worn by time. It was very simple,oval,charm, the only decoration being the engraved image of St. Nicholas, his regal, but kind, form staring back with unmoving eyes. As a young boy, Tintin mustered the courage to ask his father why he wore the necklace all the time and why it was so special.

"Well," his father began, his deep, warm voice echoing back from all those years ago, " it's a metal, laddie. A metal of Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors…"

"Sailors? I thought he only came at Christmas..."

"Well, yes, he does that too. But, you see, when I was younger, my father gave this to _me_ when _I_ became a sailor."

" _Whoa_ … Is it _magical?"_

Haddock gave a hearty laugh, a grin plastered on his face, "No, love, the metal is not magical. This metal is a reminder. It reminds us of the saint and their story. And, when you find yourself in trouble, especially on dangerous seas, one can pray for his intercession, his protection. One day, Tintin, when you're old enough, I will give this metal to _you._ "

 _"Really, papa?"_

"Really, really, laddie."

Carefully undoing the metal clasp on the side, the young man was surprised to find a small photograph of Haddock and Tintin tucked inside, both men posing handsomely in front of a model sailboat they had made together the year before.

 _Together..._

They did everything together. Laughed, cried, shared the best adventures…

Now, they couldn't do this together.

"I have to do this on my own." Tintin whispered, a solemn expression on his face.

Snowy, lifting his head, barked irritably.

"Well..." Tintin chuckled, rubbing the top of the terriers head, "not completely on my own."

"Hello! Are you Tintin?"

Wiping his eyes to regain his composure, Tintin placed the trinket in his back pocket as turned to meet the source of the voice. To Tintin's surprise, he felt himself suddenly knocked off his feet when he collided with a large, unidentifiable object.

 **Hard.**

"Woah there!" The dismembered voice cried as Tintin's head filled with stars, the young man falling back against the railing for support, "I didn't mean to knock you off your feet! Here, let me help you up!"

Suddenly, Tintin felt a strong grip encase his arm, the hand yanking him to his feet and patting his back in support. Flinching, Tintin opened his eyes and took in the speaker with awe.

Throughout his journalism career, Tintin had fought countless men that had been more than double his height.

He never would have imagined he would run into anyone more intimidating than that.

With a wide shoulders and waist, the Goliath of a man had the body of a boxer, large, strong, arms glistening with sweat in the morning sun. His 5 o'clock shadow highlighted the most notable parts of his complexion: a squarish nose, light green eyes, and sandy, brown hair stuffed hastily underneath a dingy, tan cap. Dirt and grime covered his dark brown pants, the man wiping the rest of the dirt off of his leather gloves and onto his worn, once white, tank top.

"Sorry about that," the man began, scratching the stubble lining his chin, "I'm as clumsy as an ox… Heh...Big as one, too…"

"No, no! It's fine, I'm the one who should be apologizing... Mr…?"

"Ernie." The man introduced, holding out a gloved hand with a smile, "and please, enough with the "Mr." stuff. Around here, we just call each other by our first name."

Warmth filling his chest, Tintin took the gloved hand in his, gasping aloud when Ernie squeezed back.

"That's...uh… Quite a grip you have there, Ernie."

Ernie, wide eyed, quickly retreated his hand, "Did I hurt you? I'm terribly sorry! I don't know my own strength sometimes."

"It's alright…" Tintin gently reassured, indecently rubbing his jolting nerves in his palm.

"Hey…" Ernie murmured, his eyes fluttering over to the fuzzy form standing at Tintin's side, "Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Milou but, you can call him Snowy."

Whistling, Ernie called Snowy over, bending down to scratch behind the terrier's ears. With a wide, slobbery, grin, Snowy jumped up and licked Ernie's broad chin, the man laughing briefly at the tickling sensation.

"It's not common for any of us to have pets on board but, I don't think the boys will mind."

"Snowy's not bad but, he _does_ have a reputation with catching vermin. You just can say he's the worlds _most active mousetrap."_

Chuckling, Ernie gave Snowy one last pat before pushing himself up to his feet. "Captain Allan sent me to help you get unpacked and set up for your job," Ernie explained, wiping off the excess fur that had clung on his gloves, "If case you're wondering, you'll be bunking with me. Not too fancy, our beds, but, I hope you like hammocks."

Tintin smiled, "I love hammocks. Haven't slept in one since I was a kid."

Ernie, smirking, picked up Tintin's suitcase and placed it on his shoulder with ease, "Well, you better get used to it fast, kiddo. We haven't had a new crew member in a long time. We've had to make some new bedding arrangements for you."

There was a soft woof.

"And your dog, of course."

Tintin, face lighting up with a wide grin, chuckled aloud, hurrying to keep up with Ernie's large strides leading away from the back of the main deck to the wide, metal door leading down into the sleeping quarters below.

Pausing briefly at the doorway, Tintin, eyes glistening, gave one last look the golden sunrise reflecting on the water.

 _"Au revoir, mon capitaine..."_ the young man whispered into the wind, allowing his cheery smile to deflate before following the echoing footsteps of Ernie and Snowy below.

 _ **A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter, honestly I'm just glad that the "intro" chapters are out of the way (hope I'm not going too fast though! Pace is important to a story!). I'm excited we get to see more of Allan, Tom and the rest of the Karaboudjan crew in this story! Honestly, they are my favorite villains in the series and I hope I don't go all OOC on them or Tintin (I felt like I did a little in this chapter... Whoops.)**_

 _ **Besides that, if y'all see any mistakes (trust me, grammar is not my strength), or have any comments don't hesitate to leave a review! I love those little things.**_

 _ **Well hope you have a great Thanksgiving (gobble gobble) and until next time I'll just say...**_

 _ **Cheerio!**_

 _ **~Tintinfan101**_

 _ **Up next: Tintin is anxious to start on his new job and get adjusted to his new life aboard the Karaboudjan. However, that's easier said than done... Especially if you have a specific white fox terrier…**_

 _ **EDIT: Unfortunately, I found some typos. Stupid autocorrect… :(**_


	7. Ch 7: Of First Days and Terriers

_**A/N:**_

 _ **OMIGOSH.**_

 _ **Thanks to all who are still following and have just started following this story! I know it's been a long time (understatement of the year) since I've updated but, behold! A new chapter! Ha!  
**_

 _ **Since it's been so long overdue, I decided to merge two separate chapters into one just to make up for some lost time! (almost 4,000 words! WOW.)**_

 _ **Again, thanks for the follows, reviews, etc.! It really helps me get motivated to write! I hope and pray that now I can start regularly updating in the near future!  
**_

 _ **Hope you guys enjoy it!**_

 _ **Chapter 7: Of First Days and Terriers  
**_

There was no denying it. It simply astounded Tintin how every part of the _Karaboujan_ seemed to move or breathe in some strange way. Muffled shouts and metallic hammers from above were her voice, tinkling but strong. The thunderous rush of blood echoed from the engine room below Tintin's feet, harmonized by the occasional hiss of steam from the rickety pipes above.

The hallways were no exception in participating in this breathing orchestra.

In a comfortable silence, Tintin strolled alongside Ernie, blinking at every buzz and hiss from the metal walls and ceiling. Although unseen by Tintin, Ernie would occasionally lift his eyes to every shout and order screeched across the upper decks, relieved when he heard no one was calling out his name. With a tilt of his head Tintin watched as Snowy sniffed at the squeaks and pitter-patter of hidden vermin in the floorboards, paws itching to chase after a nice, juicy rat.

After several minutes of walking through the motley ensemble, Ernie turned to look at Tintin with a soft smile.

"So, Tintin," The grizzled sailor began, eyes bright, "is this your first time working on a freighter?"

With a nod, Tintin looked up, "Yes. I've never taken a job like this before."

Ernie laughed, "Don't worry, mate. You'll get the hang of it soon enough."

Looking aside, Tintin's brow creased in worry, "I hope so..." he murmured low, too low for his fellow shipmate to hear.

"Tell me, Tintin..." Ernie continued merrily, oblivious to his co-workers concern, " _What_ made you want to become a sailor?"

"Well..." Tintin began, thinking carefully about his answer, "I... don't know, really. I was tired of my old job, I guess." Tintin meet Ernies gaze again, "I wanted... _**needed**_ something different."

A sly smirk formed on Ernie's lips, "So you thought _'somethin' different'_ was running errands on a ship _instead_ , _huh?"_

Throwing back his head, Ernie gave a hearty laugh at his own joke while Tintin, blood rushing to his cheeks, chuckled quietly alongside him.

"I know, it sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

"No, kid." Ernie snickered as he slapped Tintin firmly on the shoulder, "It's not crazy at all."

Rubbing his sore arm, Tintin smiled, "So you can say that being a sailor is quite an adventure?"

At this lighthearted question, Ernie's face inhumanly changed, his merry attitude and wide smile punched out like a light. The sailors eyes found a spot on the floor and he stared blankly.

"Yes... It's... the best you get." the large man murmured softly, almost choked out, before he resumed his normal pace.

Confused at Ernie's tense response, Tintin hurried to keep up with his crew mate's long strides, but said nothing more to the man as they traveled through the wide, winding hallways. A few minutes later, the pair spotted the all too familiar rusty door and stopped in front of it.

"Well, here we are." Ernie stated, matter-of-factly, as he attempted to push the stubborn door open with his shoulder.

"Oh," Tintin tried to smile convincingly as his eyes watered from the stench radiating from the cabin, "I remember this room from when Tom showed it to me. It's... nice."

"Eh," Ernie muttered, giving the rusty door a swift kick to gain more access, "Don't flatter yourself, kid. In case you've forgotten, there's not much to see on this ship. Trust me."

Finally, after another brute shove, Ernie got the door to open and wasted no time to make a straight path to their bunks. Tintin took his time peering around the cabin, eyeballing every leaky nook and cranny with growing discomfort. If possible, the cabin looked and _smelled_ even filthier than when he'd last seen it, useless junk and overflowing waste bins in seated in corner.

" _Well_ ," Ernie sighed, pulling the boy out of his trance, "this is where you'll be sleeping, Tintin."

Looking over his shoulder, Tintin followed Ernie's gloved finger pointed towards the bunks pushed in the back of the room. Slowly, Tintin felt his eyes widen.

The hammock hadn't been what he expected.

The threadbare rope that stretched from one metal pole to the other barely held up the makeshift bed, fraying ends secured by bands of tape and wound up twine. The hammock itself was made out of long, unwashed, bed sheets stitched haphazardly together, unidentifiable stains splattered and scraped across the fabric. As if to make matters worse, the hammock was stretched out between the two bunks, leaving very little wiggle room for any of the men to be halfway comfortable.

"Oh," was that Tintin could say, "thank you, Ernie. It's... _cozy_."

"Yeah," Ernie replied, shoving Tintin's suitcase underneath the lowest bunk with a grunt, "it is."

"Um, just out of curiosity, where is Snowy supposed to sleep?"

With a tip of the head, Ernie gestured towards a pile of rags at the foot of the bunk bed, the faint stench of rotten eggs wafting up from the poorly made stack.

Tintin blinked, "Um... Thanks, Ernie."

"You're mighty welcome!" Ernie stated, completely oblivious to Tintin's discomfort.

Still staring at the rags in disbelief, Tintin jumped when Ernie's fist bumped into his shoulder. "Come on, radio boy! We need to get you started quick if you don't want Allan after ya'."

Swallowing thickly, Tintin and Snowy followed Ernie out of the sleeping quarters, hands knotting themselves together as second thoughts and doubts tumbled about in his head.

 _By Columbus, what have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

The first hour of manning the telegraph had gone great, Tintin reasoned; besides the fact he'd spent the first half scrambling for a set of useful headphones, it had been a breeze.

After escorting Tintin to the radio room, Ernie left Tintin with a smile and a brief overview of the ships daily schedule. Lunch break wouldn't be till mid-afternoon, leaving Tintin sitting at his post for a couple hours alone until Tom came by to tell him his shift was over and take him to the dining hall. It had not bothered Tintin the slightest bit, working alone with a telegraph and radio.

The only thing at bothered him was the trash.

It was _everywhere_. On the floor, across the desk. When Tintin opened the drawers of his desk, he would find some sort of wrapper or some small piece of discarded food that had slipped in the corners pf the wooden storage. The pungent smell of rotting meat and curdled mayo invaded Tintin's nostrils every time he threw an abandoned sandwich away, careful not to let Snowy's drooling chops get a hold of it. The paper didn't pose so much as a threat to his sinuses and with a sweeping hand, the new sailor quickly filed and threw away the documents scattered across the room, creating a clear, mostly clean space for Tintin to work with. After he'd found a set of headphones hiding underneath the desk, Tintin set to work, testing the different buttons to make sure they did, indeed, still work.

Surprisingly, however, no telegraphs came in for the _Karaboujan_ , Tintin taking the opportunity to organize his desk's drawers into something a little bit more manageable.

A deep, strong voice broke him out of his reverie.

"How are you holding up, Red?"

With a start, Tintin lifted his head and turned in his seat with a surprised smile.

"Tom!" He laughed in an exhale, spotting the scarred sailor leaning in the door frame, "I'm doing well. Come in! Come in!"

With a mischievous chuckle, Tom came up to Tintin's side, leaning on the edge of his desk.

"Sorry I didn't notice you earlier!" Tintin quickly apologized, scratching the back of his head, "I was a little... _preoccupied._ "

Tom chuckled lightly again, shaking his head,"It's no problem, mate. I was just admiring what you did with the place," Tom murmured, giving a wide gesture with his arm, "you really cleaned up in here."

"Well, I try my best..." Tintin muttered, rubbing the sore muscles of his neck.

Snowy, lifting his head from his treat, trotted over to Tom, butting his head against Tom's calf with a soft woof.

With a grin, Tom patted the terriers head, before returning his focus on Tintin.

"I came to get you for lunch." Tom explained, scratching behind Snowy's left ear. "It's Ming's specialty: meatloaf and potatoes."

Tintin smiled, "That sounds great." He paused, pondering, "What about Snowy? I don't think a dog would allowed in the kitchen..."

"He can stay here," Tom reassured, patting the dog's head again, "I don't think he'll cause too much trouble. Won't you boy?"

With a unseen glint in his eye, the white fox terrier gave a merry bark in reply, his pink tongue lolling around in his wide, white smile.

* * *

After locking Snowy in the radio room, Tom lead Tintin to the dining hall, mouth watering at the thought of a fresh meal. Once finding the door, the pair walked inside, Tintin's heart fluttering at the sight. Almost the entire crew seemed to be seated in the dining room, loud shouts and excited exclamations spiraling up from the throng of rambunctious men. At a nearby table, a group was cheering for an arm wrestling match, the excited shouts amplified when one of the men managed to push his opponents fist down with smirk. At another table, Tintin noted, was a group of quiet men, playing poker. A sly smile crept up the face of one of the sailors, the others gasping when he laid out his deck of lucky cards. All about the room, the men had a merry, dare to say lighthearted, nature, good food and good company lifting their spirits. Even though the double door was rusty and creaked when they walked in, not a single soul noticed Tom and Tintin's arrival, all too preoccupied in their own business to care.

A light punch to his shoulder broke Tintin out of his awestruck observations.

"Hurry up, Tintin!" Tom hissed, impatient, "There won't be any left if we stand here!"

Swallowing thickly, Tintin picked up the last plate, the cracked plate, from a nearby cart and followed suit behind Tom to get in line. Slowly and surely, the lunch line inched closer and closer until Tintin was the only one left. The sound of a throat being cleared from behind the counter made Tintin finally look up from his plate.

The man who'd spoke wasn't much taller than Tintin, only a few inches over his head, if, of course, one counted his unruly quiff for height. The Oriental man sported a graying goatee and a smooth, bald head, his oval-shaped brown eyes looking Tintin up and down skeptically before smirking.

"So..." He murmured, voice smooth and silky, "you got the _ONE_ , eh?"

"P-Pardon?"

"Your plate..." The older man pointed out with his wooden spatula, "It's the cracked one. The _one_. "

"Oh, I don't mind it, really." Tintin chuckled, eagerly holding out his empty, damaged platter.

"You're the new guy..." The man commented aside as he spooned a few clumps of meat loaf on Tintin's plate, "I can tell."

"You can?" Tintin asked softly, looking back down at his empty plate.

The Chinese man gave a knowing smirk, "Of course. All the newbies get ol' Chip." He chuckled, "I remember when I did."

For a moment, Tintin and the man stood in an awkward silence before the stranger shook his head, as if listening to a private joke.

"Where are my manners? I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Chef Ming Wu, the _Karaboujan's_ cook, but you can just call me Ming."

Tintin smiled, "It's nice to meet you! I'm Tintin, the new radio man."

"Radio man, eh?" Ming questioned, "I hope you're fit. You'll be doing a lot of running around with that job."

"Really?" Tintin inquired, "So far, it hasn't been that busy..."

Ming scoffed, his smirk widening, "Believe me, boy, you'll be dying to catch your breath in a day or so. I tried to take the job from Tom once. However, after getting a taste Tom's _horrendous_ cooking, I took back the job. Trust me, my cooking is better than getting food poisoning for a week..."

"A _week?_ What did they eat?"

With a skeptical eye, the chief chuffed, "Will that mouth of yours ever stop asking questions?"

Tintin gave a playful smile, "I hope not... It doesn't hurt to be curious..."

"It isn't the safest of hobbies to have aboard this ship either, boy." Ming muttered, a faint glint visible in the edges of his eyes.

However, before Tintin could question the eyeballing look, the oriental chief hefted up the great pot in his arms with a grunt, turning his back to the younger man.

"Take care of yourself, radio boy!" Ming called out over his shoulder as the set of double doors leading to the kitchen swung shut behind him.

Seeing it as a cue to leave, Tintin quickly picked up his tray and peered eagerly around the crowded lunchroom. His spirits were lifted when he spotted what he was looking for and made a beeline towards it.

"Do you have a spare seat?" Tintin asked the back of the all too familiar brown cap and dingy sweater, the owner turning to face him in his seat.

Tom grinned and gestured to the empty seat beside him, "Of course!"

With a thankful nod, Tintin sat down next to Tom with a sigh. Once he was settled in his seat, Tintin finally looked up to discover he was not alone. Reading yesterday's newspaper was none other than Ernie himself, feet propped up on the table.

" _He-ey!_ You lived through your first day! Congratulations, mate." Ernie crooned, cigar wiggling between his teeth as he spoke.

With a wrinkled nose, Tom shoved Ernie's feet off the table, the boots landing back on the floor with a heavy thud.

"'ey! Keep your bloody feet off the table. It's not clean."

" _Ooohh_ ," Ernie mocked, slamming down the paper on the table, "like you're the one who's concerned about hygiene."

"Knock it off you two!" A lone voice spoke from the end of the table, "I swear, sometimes the two of you act like _niños_..."

Blinking, Tintin looked around Tom toward the man who'd spoke and was surprised he hadn't seen him sooner. The man was wide as he was tall, with olive skin and a maroon sweater stretched over his potbelly. His dark brown eyes were focused intently on a piece of wood, carving intricate patterns into the surface with his dull pocketknife. As the man turned to look at Tintin, the corners of his mouth crept up into a wide smile, the white teeth highlighting his hawk-like features.

" _Hola amigo._ " The man spoke, voice laced with a heavy Spanish accent, "Name's Pedro Rodriguez, but you can call me Pedro."

Tintin smiled, "Hello, Pedro! My name's Tintin, I'm-."

"The new radio operator, right..." Pedro cut in, eyes focused back onto carving a bird into the wood, "I heard we got a new shipmate..." There was a pause, "we usually don't get newbies like you anymore..."

"Yeah," Tom mumbled around a mouth full of food, "most of the men here are just ol', grey haired, slobs."

"Why's that?" Tintin inquired, taking a tentative bite of his food, making sure to keep his eyes off of Tom.

"Why's what?"

"Why don't you get new crew mates anymore?"

Instantly, the men froze in place, 3 pairs of wide eyes peering at Tintin with a mixed expression of shock.

Tintin was taken aback. _Had he said the wrong thing? Was it a sore subject for the crew?_

A graver thought struck Tintin.

 _Had someone...?_

"It's alright, Tintin." Ernie reassured with a soft smile, the sailor's shoulders relaxed. "I guess... We're not used to... Um... questions like that."

Before Tintin could ask what he meant, a clangor of broken plates and cups rose up behind him.

"HEY!"

"ACK!"

"OI! WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?!"

At the sound of angry shouts, Tintin, along with the rest of the table, turned in their seats towards the rising commotion. Tables away, a crowd of men gathered and scurried around, several heads blocking a clear view of what was happening. Above the startled shouts and muffled curses, Tintin heard a high pitched cry that could only belong to one being.

One fuzzy, white tornado of _pure destruction._

 ** _"SNOWY!"_** Tintin cried, scrambling up and out of his chair and towards the gathering mass of men.

Pushing a few sailors aside, Tintin could see between the crowded bodies what was happening.

Like a projectile missile, Snowy flew over the tables, knocking bowls and cups out of men's hands and sending utensils flying into the air. An albino rat, Tintin realized after it gave a terrified squeak, is what Snowy was chasing so feverishly after.

And nothing, it seemed was going to stand in his way.

Snapping out of his shock, Tintin rushed over to his canine companion, who was in the process of weaving between some of the sailors legs. The rat swerved between the feet of the crew, and Snowy dived after it, knocking over one of the men in the process. The crew member fell heavily towards the floor and into another sailor. Before long, fists were flying through the air, and Tintin had to duck to keep from being hit by a stray punch or an overturned tray of food.

"Snowy! Milou! Get back here this instant!" Tintin called after his dog as he attempted to chase him down.

With shriek, the white rat squeezed through the nearest crack in the wall, Snowy shoving his nose after him. With a whine, he scratched at the hole, barking and whining wildly. Finally catching up to him, Tintin reached to grab his terrier's scruff but screamed when a sharp white hot pain shot up his arm.

In his hungry, nearly crazed, state Snowy managed to bite down on Tintin's outstretched hand, the boy crying out in pained surprise. He took a step back, and knocking his heel against an overturned bowl, Tintin fell onto the wooden table sitting behind him with a crash.

For a moment, everything seemed to travel in slow motion.

Tintin, hand still caught in Snowy's mouth, watched with wide eyes as a large plate of smashed potatoes went unceremoniously flying through the air, over the heads of sailors and land with a enormous _splat_ onto a person standing dumbfounded in the doorway. Instantly, the fighting stopped, heads turned to watch in complete horror, as the heavy metal plate, still full of potatoes, slid slowly down the man's features before falling with a hollow thud at his feet.

In that moment, everyone finally saw who the victim was and took in a breath of shock.

" _C-Captain Allan..._ " An awestruck voice murmured before the crew quickly scrambled to their feet at full attention. There was a heavy moment, before Allan, with one swift swipe, scraped the thick layer of potatoes off his face and revealed the boiling scowl underneath.

Blinking the gravy out of eyes, he scanned the room with an unreadable expression, taking in every overturned table and chair in the room with a growing frown.

In a jerk of his head, his eyes finally fell on the crowd.

 _ **"Who's responsible for this mess?"**_ The flat nosed man bellowed at the waiting men, each one visibly flinching as his lips curled back in an fierce snarl.

Like the Red Sea, the crew parted to reveal an open mouthed, ginger lad, still seated in the same position as he had fallen against the table staring at the captain with shock. Tintin, heart dropping in his rib cage, rose slowly to his feet, his gravy soaked pooch resting securely clutched under his arm.

He dared not to look up from the floorboards as he shakily walked forward, in fear that he would be a victim to the captains uncontrollable rage. Granted, Tintin knew a thing or two about self defense, but, he doubted beating his own captain in a fight wasn't going to make the best impression.

"I-It was me, sir." Tintin murmured, almost whispered, between trembling teeth. "It was a-all my fault."

Only after Allan stepped right in front of the young man, did Tintin _dare_ to meet his captain's furious gaze.

"My office. _Now._ " Allan hissed, grabbing the radio boy firmly by the arm and tugging him along behind him.

As he was dragged roughly out of the destruction, Tintin could feel the heat of over two dozen pairs of eyes searing into his back before the double door to the mess hall slammed with a deafening bang behind him.

 _Well, Milou..._ Tintin thought, shooting a heated glare at his furry companion from the corner of his eye, _so much for making friends..._

 ** _A/N: UH OH. Guess who's in trouble._**

 ** _Thanks so much for reading the latest update! If you want, please leave a comment in the comment section below! (Gosh, I love those little things)_**

 ** _That's it for now! Until next time, I'll just say..._**

 ** _Cheerio!_**

 ** _~Tintinfan101_**


	8. Ch 8: Of Truths and Lies

_**Chapter 8: Of Truths and Lies**_

With his arm caught in Allan's grip like a steel trap, Tintin could easily agree that the walk to Allan's office was uncomfortable, to say the least.

However, the haste and sharp stroll, full of tugging and grumbling, was nothing compared to the discomfort that followed.

After slamming the door behind him, Allan didn't hesitate shoving the boy and whimpering dog into the nearest chair with a growl. Dazed and winded, Tintin could only watch as the infuriated captain of the _Karaboujan_ paced around his small office, hands balled into tight fists of fury at his sides. For the longest time, the sound of Allans heavy footsteps was the only thing that filled the cramped office space, Tintin taking the uncomfortable silence as an opportunity to gain his breath and his surroundings.

The captains office was anything but welcoming.

With a squat desk as the centerpiece, the Allans Office was quite small and minimalist compared to the other rooms Tintin had seen. With a large metal cabinet to his right, there wasn't much room for decoration. The only ornament in sight was a faded map framed on his left, it's dark black ink drained from the sun that filtered through the open porthole in the back of the room, the lad blinking against the harsh light. Although the window was open and the day was still fresh, no air passed through it, the smell of years-old must, liquor, and tobacco hanging heavily in the air.

At the all too familiar smells, Tintin felt his heart twist in his chest.

 _Captain, if you could only see me now... I can't even handle a day on a ship!_ Tintin felt his head grow heavy and he sighed, hands tightening firmly around Snowy who was visibly shaking in his lap, _What on earth was I thinking? Why did I think I could do this?_

At the sound of a lighter igniting, Tintin's eyes drew up and watched as Allan fastened a freshly lit cigarette between his teeth, the middle aged man closing his eyes as he took a long breath in. Tintin, eyes wide, stared as the bluish smoke rose up and dissipated against the swinging ceiling fan above them. However, when Tintin caught a glimpse of Allans razor sharp stare, the young man quickly lowered his head, a crimson blush quickly traveling up his neck.

"You know, boy, you are really testing my nerves today." Allan hissed through a veil of smoke before extinguishing his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, the butt giving a small hiss before extinguishing itself.

Tintin stared at the golden embers, face hot with shame, "I'm-."

"You destroyed the kitchen. You disrupted my crew. And you broke the one _PROMISE_ that _you_ made!"

Snowy sunk further into Tintin's front and the boy rubbed the terriers head in soothing circles, softly shushing his trembling form.

At Snowy's pathetic whimper, Allan shook his head and slammed his palm against his desk in frustration, "You said you would keep that _bloody dog_ of yours under control..." Allan paused, contemplating. "Tell me, who was the last person to leave the radio room?"

Tintin raised his eyes, finally able to meet his captain's gaze.

"It was me..." He admitted, vividly remembering the feeling of the cold iron door on his hands. "I was the last one to step out of the radio room."

"Are you sure?"

Tintin nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat, "Positive, sir."

Allan, face weary, took in a deep breath and covered his eyes with a calloused hand.

"Oh, for God's sake, Tintin..."

Blinking back the stinging feeling in his eyes, Tintin shook his head in dismay.

"I'm so sorry, sir... I thought that I had locked the door to the radio room behind me." There was a pause as Tintin licked his dry lips, heart hammering in his chest, "I...I guess I was wrong."

"You guess? You _guess?!_ " Allan put a hand to his forehead, managing to smear the gravy that was still clinging to him with a look of disgust. At any other moment, one would've found the situation amusing but, with Allans poised-to-painfully-kill glare, Tintin bit back his laughter and blushed in embarrassment instead. With a growl, Allan pulled his hand away, wiping the remnants of lunch on the side of his pants.

"That's it. Your dog is gone at the next port."

" _What?_ "

"You heard me. _**Gone!**_ He caused this whole mess and guess who has to clean it up?"

"Sir, I'll clean it up! I'll do kitchen duty for a week! A month, even! Just please don't send Snowy away! He would die if we were separated!"

" _Boo-hoo_ , pipsqueak. Go cry me a river."

" _Please_ , sir," Tintin protested, tears finally managing to trickle down his face as he went to his knees. "Please... Please, I'll do _anything_!"

At the boys pitiful plea, Allan blinked in surprise, but shook his head, pushing all sympathetic feelings aside.

" _Look_ , for the last time, that dog-!"

However, before Allan could finish his sentence, it was cut off as the door flew open with a deafening crash, Tom stumbling in a tangle of arms and legs.

"Wait! Wait! Captain Allan, hold everything off! Wait!" He panted, the sailor doubling over with the effort of catching his breath.

For a moment, the boy and salty captain could only stare in surprise at Tom's worn and breathless state, before Allan scowled deeply in annoyance. "Tom, get out of my office. This doesn't concern you."

"Yes!" Tom protested, straightening a bit,. "Yes, it does!"

"What are you talking about, you oaf?"

"I was the one who closed the door!" Tom exclaimed in a gasp, silence becoming dominant in the room once more.

Snapping out of his shock, Allan shook his head, " _Impossible._ Our radio boy-."

"Was lying to you sir!" Tom finished in a blurt, beads of sweat beginning to roll down the back of his neck.

For a moment, Tintin stared unbelievingly at the grizzled sailor before, with a gentle hand, Tom guided Tintin back up to his feet, his knees still trembling.

" _What_ are you _doing?_ " Tintin asked in a hushed whisper, too quiet for Allan to hear.

As Allan turned away in thought, Tom risked a quick wink in Tintin's direction.

"Just trust me," he muttered, before resuming his tired expression and facing Allan's wrath once more.

It was a full minute or two before Allan slowly turned to face Tintin, a new fire kindled in his eyes.

"Is this _true?_ " Allan spat through gritted teeth as he took a firm step towards the lad.

However, before the furied captain could make another move, Tom stepped in between the two men, holding out a hand to keep Allan's rage at bay.

"He was sticking his neck out to save me, sir." Tom insisted, standing straight against Allan's towering shadow. "He's that good of a crew mate!"

"You don't know anything, Tom. Hell, you've only known him a day!"

 _"So have you!"_ Tom retorted, his large shout in the small space causing Captain Allan to take a tentative step back.

Closing his eyes, Tom released his breath, instantly calming his shaking nerves, " _Look_ , Al, I may not be the smartest sailor but I know a good shipmate when I see one. Yes, it was Snowy that caused a mess and yes, I know it's a big one but, Tintin took responsibility for it! He took responsibility for his dog's actions..." There was a pause, and Tom lowered his heated gaze, "Captain, the whole kitchen incident wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been so clueless. I should've checked the door, not him..." With a huff, Tom stood a little straighter, placing an arm around Tintin's shoulder, "If anyone should be sent away, it should be me!"

Allan, scanning them up and down, released his breath in a drawn hiss.

"Alright, fine! The boy, and his dog, can stay!"

"Thank you, sir!" Tintin exclaimed, holding Snowy a little closer, "Thank you so much!"

"Listen to me," Allan whispered, voice dangerously low, "if I ever hear so much as a whisper of you or your dog causing trouble again, I swear, I will toss you, the both of you, overboard myself, and you can _**swim**_ to the next port! Am I _clear?_ "

"As crystal, sir."

Allan, scoffing, sat back down in his chair, eyes focusing on the mug of pencils that had fallen over on his desk.

"Get out of my office, you blubbering _**fool**_."

Tintin didn't need to be told twice. With a final murmured "thank you" Tintin and Tom got up and left Allan's office as quickly as they could, Snowy still tucked securely in Tintin's hands.

Once out of earshot, Tintin sighed and set Snowy down on the iron floor, the terrier never merrier to have all four paws on the ground again. For several minutes, the pair walked in silence, Tom leading Tintin back down the dim corridor and to the nearest exit he could find.

Once on deck, Tintin tugged on Tom's sweater, making the sailor stop in his tracks.

"Thanks... for helping out in there," Tintin murmured, his voice almost lost in the sharp cry of seagulls flying overhead.

"It's no problem," Tom replied, a small smile on his face, "I'm glad I got there when I did." Tom chuckled, "Allan looked about ready to knock you overboard!"

Tintin, however, didn't laugh back.

"But I don't understand." Tintin interjected, shaking his head, "Tom, you knew I was the last one out the door..."

Tom nodded slightly, "Aye, I know."

"Then-Then, why? Why did you stand up for me?

"Tintin, I know this sounds crazy... but..." There was a pause, and Tom looked away from the lad, eyes filtering across the deck, across the birds and the crates.

"But what?" Tintin probed, every fiber itching for a final, proper answer from someone, anyone, in the motley _Karaboujan_ crew.

 _What? What do you want to say?_ Tintin wanted to scream, to shout at the top of his lungs, _What is it you're not telling me?_

 _What are you so afraid of?_

Giving a halfhearted laugh, Tom offered a small plastic smile, the corners of his mouth wrinkling with the strain, "But nothing Tintin." He breathed, "Like I said, it's only your first day. I stood up for you because Allan would never have given you a chance."

Tintin shrugged distractedly, his mind still mulling over Tom's hesitant statement. However, he quickly changed the subject with a soft smile and even softer chuckle.

"So...Allan...I-Is he always that..." Tintin gestured vaguely.

"Scary?" Tom offered, with a smile of his own.

Tintin nodded the blush returning to his cheeks.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. His bark is worse than his bite. He gets like this every time we-."

Tom cut off abruptly, face growing slack.

"What? What is it?" Tintin asked, heart hammering at the complete look of horror on Tom's face.

"Your hand..." Tom whispered from behind pale lips, "Tintin, you're _bleeding!_ "

Surprised, Tintin glanced down at his hand, at the circle of scarlet pinpoints forming on the skin.

"Oh." Was all Tintin could say, the stinging pain and steady bleeding in his hand finally recognized. "Ow..."

"Let me see." Tom insisted, grabbing and pulling Tintins open palm towards him. Frowning, Tom pressed a corner of his own sweater against the wound, attempting to staunch the bleeding. "Come on, let's take you to Doc and get you patched up."

Tintin gently but firmly removed his hand from Tom's grasp, offering a weak smile, "I'll be fine, Tom. Honestly, it's no big deal. It's just a scratch."

"You call _that_ just a scratch?" Tom asked before shaking his head in disbelief, " _ **Nonsense.**_ I'm taking you to Doc even if I have to drag you."

"Come on, Tom."

"Come on, Tintin." Tom retorted, rolling his eyes, "You're being ridiculous. No way we can function with a one-handed radio boy."

Frowning, Tintin paused momentarily, going over his other options, his ways of escape.

He found none.

"Alright, Tom," Tintin sighed, holding out his good hand, "I'll let you lead the way…"

 _ **A/N: Hello, yes, I am back from Mars...**_

 _ **It was beautiful by the way...**_

 _ **I'm kidding, I'm kidding, I hoped you enjoyed this update. I had fun writing it, ESPECIALLY Tom and Allan (Allan's one scary dude, bro).**_

 _ **Sorry for the late update, I hope to update more soon, possibly next month or so.**_

 _ **Thanks to everyone that has commented, followed, or favorited since the last update, Y'all are awesome.**_

 _ **If haven't already, please leave a comment in the comment section below. (Man, I love those little things. They really push you on, ya' know?)**_

 _ **Anywho, thanks for reading the latest update and hope to hear responses from y'all soon.**_

 _ **Until then, I'll just say...**_

 _ **Cheerio!**_

 _ **~Tintinfan101**_


	9. Ch 9: Of Scars and Phantom Pains

**_Chapter 9: Of Scars and Phantom Pains_**

Tintin had never been the one to get squeamish or sick at the sight of blood. Bumps and bruises were what came with being an adventurous explorer and freelance reporter, hoping to catch a story to sell to the paper. He quickly found not everyone was happy with his curiosity and he'd gotten in his fair share of fistfights, each ending with a bleeding knuckles or a bruising jaw on both sides. In the end, after Haddock drug him out and away from the fight and as his wounds were cleaned, Tintin always felt a new rush of adrenaline, along with a feeling of victory after every fight he won. But now, clasping his hand in the end of his sweater, Tintin felt anything but victorious. His scarlet blood swelled and stained the edge of the shirt, turning the fabric a deep, dark purple.

 _Isn't it supposed to stop by now?_ Tintin thought, as he observed the wound. It wasn't a particularly large wound, the semicircle of teeth marks marking the palm and top of his hand. However, the punctures were deep and, with every minute that passed as the pair detoured through the labyrinth of corridors, Tom's worried frown growing deeper and deeper. As the pair made their way up the stairs and to the ships main deck again, Tintin paused to momentarily lean against the railing, suddenly growing light headed and dizzy.

Noting how his crewmate stopped so suddenly, Tom turned around and stood at Tintin's side.

"Hey, you alrigh', Red?"

Leaning over the side, Tintin had the sudden feeling he was going to be sick, that afternoon's lunch threatening to abandon ship.

" _Hey_ , are you alrigh'?" Tom asked again, resting a hand on Tintin's shoulder. Tintin, swallowing thickly, shook his head slowly side to side, the young man continuing to stare blankly over the side. With the crashing waves, salt water slapped and leapt against the side of the _Karaboujan_ , the flying droplets clinging to the freckles lining his cheeks. He wanted to cry out of frustration. First day, looking like as fragile and naive as a child. He didn't want to look weak in front of Tom, in front of his captain, in front of anyone, really.

Tintin, shaking his head again, tore his eyes away from the water before he looked back at Tom, blinking at the black spots dancing behind his eyes. Staring half lidded at Tom, Tintin didn't have time to make sense how his crewmate suddenly had an identical twin and where Snowy's barks were coming from before the cold, steel deck was so eager and rushing up to meet him.

* * *

He was picked on from day one; the other larger students always taking a chance to hit the back of his ginger head with anything they could get their hands on. A worn ball of paper, a dusty eraser, anything and everything that was in reach of the classroom and wasn't big enough to get noticed flying through the air by Mrs. May, their third grade teacher.

One day, the game had found its way to the playground, next to the see-saw Tintin was sitting on. He was happily reading his book, (he was never much for playing tag like the other kids), when suddenly a glob of dirt hit him squarely in between the shoulder blades. Tintin flinched. The blow particularly wasn't hard at all but, now his new, clean sweater was soiled and he began to wonder how to explain this to Nestor when he got home. Face flushing, tiny Tintin turned to face the trio of snickering boys, their faces dirty and scratched with roughhousing and careless play.

The tallest one, Bill, the trio's leader, smiled, "What's the matter? Scared your butler won't be able to get the stain out?"

They laughed and Tintin's eyes narrowed in annoyance, brushing the clinging dust off his shoulder, "He's not my butler! Uncle Nestor's the best uncle I could have."

"Sure," Mark, the stockiest one of the bunch, scoffed, "if you would consider that _butler_ your family."

Shutting his book with a loud thud, Tintin attempted to walk away from the incident before it even happened.

He didn't get far.

Faster than he could process, Jim, the shortest one of the group, (but still taller than the red haired boy) swiped Tintin's book right out of his hands, tossing it to Bill with ease.

"Hey!" Tintin cried, "Give that back! It's mine!"

Bill gave a ugly smirk, holding the book high above his head, "Come and get it if you want it so badly!"

In desperation, Tintin's little hands scrabbled for his beloved piece of literature, each attempt falling hopelessly out of reach. These boys were a full head higher than him, and didn't want to make it too easy to win the trio's game of Keep-Away.

"Please! Please, give it back! My Uncle Skut gave it to me!"

The whole trio laughed at the boys desperate plea, the book flying between them with gaining speed.

 _"Your Uncle Skut?"_ Mark asked with a smirk as he caught the little boy's book in his chubby hands, "In case you haven't noticed, _pipsqueak_ , you're adopted. You don't even have a _real_ family."

 _"They **are** my real family!"_ Tintin shrieked, face turning deep red as he lunged at Mark, his flailing hands knocking the book out of the bully's grip. They both fell, Tintin watching in horror as his new gift flew through the air before landing in a patch of dirt, the shiny cover tarnished instantly by the grime encased in the soggy earth. Lifting himself back up to his feet, Tintin ran over to it, tears glistening his eyes as he observed his new copy of _Treasure Island_ lying marred in the dust.

"You'll never be loved by them, Adventure Boy." Bill hissed behind him, the trios long shadows casting over Tintin like beady-eyed vultures, "He's just going to give you away to an orphanage sooner or later. I bet you don't even know where your real family is. Where's your birth dad? Where's your mummy, Tintin?"

There was a pause as Bill's face stretched in a twisted smile, a chorus of snickers behind him.

"Is she _dead?_ "

Without a the slightest sound, Tintin collected his book from the mud, wiping away most of the damage with his torn sleeve. He didn't dare to look at the trio as he was walking away, keeping his eyes forward and focused on reaching the door leading back inside the classroom.

"Hey! _HEY!_ Answer me when I talk to you!"

Tintin, however, kept walking and held his head up to the sky, tears threatening to spill over his eyelids as he focused on the cotton candy clouds above, the puffy billows blowing peacefully through the stark blue sky.

Tintin didn't know he'd been hit till he felt the cold, hard ground beneath his fingertips.

A pain, sharper than anything he'd ever felt before, laced up his jaw all the way to his the front of his head. The breath had been knocked out of him when he landed, and was greeted seconds later with a dull ache where the earth met his stomach. For a moment, he thought his whole head had exploded into a million different pieces, flying through the air like shattered glass. However, the pain he experienced soon pinpointed to a spot on the side of his face, where it throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

 _A rock..._ Tintin's thoughts slurred, as he vaguely made out the jagged, bloodied stone inches where he had landed awkwardly on his book.

 _They threw a rock._

His mind was completely in a haze as he heard a girl scream, teachers shout in concern, and the pleaing cries of boys who were being led by their ears to the principals office fade in the distance. Gentle arms picked Tintin up and rushed him to the nurse's office as fast as they could carry him, bright lights and concerned voices mingling together until he felt his world growing cold and dark and black.

Still trapped in a daze, Tintin was surprised that he awoke to see the bleached white ceilings of the schools infirmary instead of the cream walls of his bedroom ceiling. The smell of disinfectant lingered in the cold crisp air and a soft wool blanket swaddled his small form from the chill. At first, the boy thought he was alone, until a shuffling from his right finally brought him back to regain his senses.

"Lad?" A choked, hoarse voice asked a light shone in both of Tintin's eyes, the boy flinching at the sudden brightness.

A low groan escaped his lips as he recognized the face to belong to his papa, Captain Haddock.

"His eyes are somewhat dilated..." the nurse, Miss Loren, observed, turning to face the Captain, "That is to be expected. He took quite a hit to his head." Blinking out the spots, Tintin watched intently as she wondered off to her left, picking up a clipboard as she passed a rolling tray against the wall, "Fortunately, it doesn't look like he has to go to the hospital. The swelling should start to go down in a day or two, along with the pain."

"W-What happened?" Tintin asked, his speech slurred with the intense pain and swelling on the right side of his face. He reached up to touch the tender spot, hissing as his fingers found the patched gash on his jaw where the stone had hit him.

"Blistering barnacles Tintin! You were hit with a stone by that Billy kid." Haddock explained as he clenched the side of the bed, "If I could get my hands on him, I would-!"

 _"Captain!"_ A voice rose from the far corner of the room, a steel coldness set in his tone. Nestor, Tintin realized as he was propped up on a mountain of pillows, had been standing in the corner of the nurses office the whole time, watching the young boy with worry. He clasped the damaged copy of _Treasure Island_ in his hands and looked anything but organized. His collar was on crooked, his comb-over was a mess and his shoelaces were already coming apart. Clearly the pair had come in a hurry, and Tintin momentarily wondered how long he'd been out.

"I'm sorry, laddie." Captain Haddock apologized, releasing his grip on the sheets, "I shouldn't talk that way."

Swallowing, Tintin's gaze went down to the shape of his feet sticking out of the sheets. "It's a-alright, Papa..."

A beat of silence passed before Tintin felt Captain Haddocks hand underneath his chin, easing the boy to meet his gaze.

"Tintin," Captain Haddock began, eyes laced with invisible steel, "What happened out on the playground?"

"Do you need a minute alone?" The nurse asked gently, stopping in her action of filling out the paperwork on her clipboard to steal a glance at the pair on the other end of the room.

"Would you mind?" Captain Haddock asked, eyeballing the woman and Nestor standing awkwardly side by side.

"Of course not, sir." Nestor murmured, following the blonde haired nurse out the door after she passed. With a creak, the door to the infirmary closed, leaving the father and son alone and in an uncomfortable silence.

"I-I'm not mad at you, Tintin. Nothing was your fault." Captain Haddock reassured, crouching down to be in eye level of his boy. The lad's shoulders trembled, tears threatening to spill over his eyes once more as he looked past Haddock and found a spot on the floor to focus on.

"It's alright, Tintin." Captain Haddock whispered, his grey eyes locking with Tintin's teary, blue ones, "You can tell me..."

Overcome by emotion and the days events, Tintin released a heart-wrenching sob before the sea dog pulled him close, cradling the boy and sitting cross legged on the tile floor.

"T-They spoke bad about us, papa." Tintin cried, Captain Haddock rubbing soothing circles on Tintin's back, "T-They spoke about me and y-you and Uncle Nestor..." the boy's voice trailed, swallowing thickly, "They took Uncle Skut's gift and I tried to get it back."

Captain Haddock nodded in quiet understanding, his rough peppered beard tickling the side of Tintin's bruised face.

"I knocked it out of their hands and they said that..." He paused, biting his lip, "Y-You weren't my real family..." Tintin whimpered, "They said you were going to give me away to an _o-o-orphanage!"_

"Tintin," Captain Haddock whispered into the boy's hair as he held him tighter, "I will always love you. You know I would _never_ do that."

"But, Papa, they-."

"It doesn't matter what they said, Tintin. It's all _lies_." The sea dog said firmly, breaking away from the embrace and gripping Tintin's arms to face him, "The only thing that matters is that you're okay." He paused, his iron grip loosening as he rested a hand on the white gauze, "You're my son and I _promise_ with every last bit of my weathered soul I will never, _ever_ let you go." Captain Haddock soothed, wiping away the boy's tears with his calloused thumb.

"Ever?" Tintin asked, a small hopeful smile forming on his still trembling lips.

"Never ever." Haddock whispered in a hush, touching the boy's forehead with his own. He pulled the boy close in an embrace once more and, with a sigh, Tintin sagged against his fathers grip, allowing the sound of his thunderous heartbeat to drown out the cries of doubt of love to the back of his mind, banished forever.

* * *

 _"Nein!_ You're doing it all wrong! Here! It goes this way, you _dummkoff!_ "

Behind closed eyelids, strange voices such as these drifted in and out of Tintin's weak hold of consciousness. On occasion, he heard the foreign tongue of German grace his ears, accompanied by a rougher and deeper English, each indistinctly arguing back and forwards with each other. It wasn't soon after the pair of almost shouting voices left his presence when the feeling returned to his hands and feet along with a cool chill across his skin. As the young man regained his footing in unfamiliar surroundings, he carefully opened his eyes, flinching at the bright light forcing its way through the slits. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the hanging lamp over his head, Tintin scanned the space around him. He was in moderately large room, filled end to end with a dozen beds wielded to the floor. A bedside table with a large lamp was to his right, and a small metal tray full of medical instruments was to his left. He raised a hand to his forehead, feeling the damp rag that cooled his clammy skin. His hand had been wound with crisp, white linens, not a drop of scarlet in sight. As he sat up, the rag falling into his lap, he noted the distant sound of a woman's operatic singing and the gentle tinkling of glass against glass coming from the nearest and only doorway in the room. Before he could gain the focus to rise and investigate where he was, the door opened on it's own, revealing a tall, thin man carrying a small black bag, behind it. To Tintin, he seemed strangely out of place upon a freighter, with a red button up shirt, green shorts and blue sneakers. With a green cap, black goatee and sunglasses to frame his pale, thin face, the man looked better fit to be touring exotic islands, not aboard the freighter _Karaboujan_. Upon seeing Tintin was awake, the man dropped his black bag in the nearest bed and hurried to Tintin's side, his large smile exposing his even larger teeth.

" _Gut_ , you're awake! I was starting to worry you'd be out for a while."

"Out? What do you mean? W-What happened?" Tintin inquired, rubbing the back of his throbbing head.

The man, standing close to the young sailors side, placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Woah, woah. Take it easy, Tintin. You fainted on the main deck and Tom carried you here to the infirmary. You were in quite a shock."

"Shock? B-But, I've gone through things worse than getting bitten by a dog."

" _Ja."_ The man replied softly, eyes flickering behind his sunglasses, "I've seen."

For the first time since he awoke, Tintin realized he was only half dressed, his baby blue sweater and undershirt nowhere to be seen. Underneath the classic wool sweaters hid something few had seen. Scars, dozens of them, crisscrossed the man's chest and torso, the leftovers of fistfights and shootouts he'd been drug into over the years. A bullet wound there, a closed gash there. Absently, Tintin touched the oldest of the scars: the burn marks on the outside of both of his arms, the sensation of his fingertips not picked up by his ruined skin.

When Tintin looked up again, he was surprised to see the man holding out a new sweater, cleaned and folded, in his hands.

"Loss of blood and mental stress, I believe, was the source of your fainting," Behind his glasses, he offered an apologetic look, "I'm sorry about your sweater, Tintin. I had to get rid of it to make sure you could breathe properly. Here, take this one. I think it will fit on you better than me."

With a nod of appreciation, Tintin took and held out the sweater to observe. It was a simple grey turtleneck with a knitted pattern of sailor's knots in the front. Although it wasn't his usual attire, he pulled it over his head and, to his surprise, it fit well on his thin frame.

The wiry man smiled, exposing his large front teeth, "See? What did I tell you?"

"Thank you... um... I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

At his response, the man laughed, a high pitched and wild sound that brought a picture of a mad scientist to mind.

"Excuse me! Where are my manners?" He chortled, holding out a long hand, "My name is Krospell, Doctor Krospell."

At the gesture, Tintin gave a small smile back, taking the large hand in his own, "I'm Tintin, but, you might have already known that..."

Still smiling, Krospell adjusted his sunglasses, his barely visible eyes twinkling behind the lenses, " _Ja,_ Thomas has told me so much about you. All good things, of course."

Tintin gasped, "Great snakes! I had almost forgot! Tom! Where is he? Is he-?"

"He is fine." Krospell reassured, "Your dog, Snowy, is with him as well. He went back to the radio room once he knew you were settled here. The _dummkoff_ tried to help me take care of your hand but I made him go someplace where he could be... well... _less_ useless, I guess."

Tintin looked down at his feet, the lumps visible from beneath the sheets.

 _Saved twice in one day. I owe him more than a 'Thank you' for sure..._

Clearing his throat, Krospell held out his hand, another smile playing on his lips.

"Now then, let's say we look at that hand again in my office?"

* * *

Tintin never expected a part of the _Karaboujan_ , besides the cargo hold, to be tidy and neat. The inside of Doctor Krospell's office and cabin was simply pristine. Although it was a simple space, it had all the necessities of a man could ask for. A small, neatly made bed sat in the corner of the room, the thin sheet he had for a blanket pulled taught and the flat pillow fluffed as much as it could go. A wooden table on the left side of the room doubled as a desk, piles of papers neatly stacked and ready to go into their designated files. With screws and a bit of spare wood, Krospell had made a makeshift shelf above his bed, holding a worn record player, a few records, some dusty books and a unidentifiable specimen in a jar that Tintin, for once, didn't want to know why or how or where the man got it. The operatic voice one of Castafoire's greatest operas, _La gazza ladra,_ filled the room, Tintin pulling the wool blanket Krospell had provided around his frame a little tighter. Directly behind him was the door to the now empty infirmary, the cool air from the cracked door sending a shiver down his spine. In front of Tintin was the door that led out to the main deck, the porthole letting the last bits of dying light dance across the tops of his feet and lukewarm floorboards. Silently, Tintin watched Krospell flutter to and fro around his room in his search for Tintin's prescription of antibiotics, which he'd swore on the skeleton stored in his closet he'd seen only a moment ago. Eyes travelling from left to right, Tintin rubbed the gauze and linens wrapped around his hand, thankful that the bleeding had stopped with Krospell's careful and precise wrapping. As he waited, Tintin absently felt the side of his face with his free hand. A small raised scar, no longer than his pinky, sat on the side of his jaw. Touching the bump that rested on the edge of his jaw and cheek, he felt himself travel back to the conversation with Haddock, a sudden warmth filling up his chest.

He was especially glad those boys never did mess with him again.

"You're an awfully quiet man, Mr. Tintin." Krospell commented, shoving his hand into the black bag sitting on his bed.

Tintin shook his head, an apologetic smile on his lips, "Sorry Doctor Krospell. Lost in thought, that's all."

"Ah, yes." Krospell murmured as he gave up his search in the bag and went through his medicine cabinet in the back of his office, the little glass jars chattering with every shake the doctor gave them, "It's the perfect way to avoid being bothered by the pain."

Looking back down at his bandaged hand, Tintin flexed his fingers, relieved that the pain received in return was minimal and only left a very sore throb when he moved his thumb.

Hoping to break the awkward silence of the doctor going through his cabinet, Tintin cleared his throat.

"So, uh, how did you become the ships doctor?" Tintin questioned, feet swinging and bouncing back from the desk chair he was sitting in.

He heard Krospell's chuckle from the depths of the cabinet, his head now engulfed by the case.

"Just like you, I applied." Krospell responded, retreating from the giant case with a smile and a small bottle of pills. He walked over to his desk, setting down a small bottle of white pills on the wooden surface, and began counting. "Actually, my job is a mix-match of everything, Tintin. I help Allan in the early morning and late evenings with all of his maps and documentation and during the _glorious_ day, I work here as the ships doctor." With a sweeping hand, he pushed the prescribed amount of pills into an empty bottle and, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket, he began to write on the blank label, "I've pulled too many splinters out of this crews fingers and stitched too many wounds than I dare to count but, it beats working on the field, I guess."

"Oh, so, you were a field medic?"

As if he were slapped, the bottle of medication flew out of Krospell's hands, landing onto the hard floor with a loud crack. The bottle fractured into countless pieces, sending all of the white pills rolling under desks, tables and the cabinet on the far side of the room. Cursing aloud in German, he looked at Tintin with wide eyes before releasing a disdainful sigh.

"I let that one slip, didn't I?" Krospell chuckled, taking his cap off and rubbing the back of his shaved head, "I didn't want you to know so soon..."

At a loss for words for what he meant, Tintin watched as the man wandered over to his work space, popping an aspirin from his pocket into his mouth as he went.

"Yes, I was a field medic once in WWII, fighting for the Allies." He grabbed the syringe off the tray, making his way over to Tintin. Krospell peeled back Tintin's sleeve and stuck him, draining the fluid slowly through his veins. "After the fighting stopped, I was the one who ran right into No Man's Land, dragging men out of barbed wire and hellfire and praying to God I didn't get shot myself." He paused, grimacing, "There weren't many medics at my post after the first and second attack."

"Were you scared?" Tintin asked in a low voice, countless questions already brewing in his head.

Tintin was surprised when Krospell responded with a slow nod, a forced, closed lipped smile on his face.

"More than you could ever imagine."

Tintin remained quiet until the syringe was removed and a bandage was placed over the injection site.

"There. Your hand should be sore for a while. I was going to give you some antibiotics but, that should work instead." Krospell murmured softly as he disposed of the used needle. "I would suggest you clean it often and come back to me when you need some linens. It should heal within a week or so."

Tintin nodded, "Thank you, Doctor."

"Please," The man replied, gingerly patting Tintin's wrapped hand, "just Krospell. I'm not one for formalities."

Tintin sheepishly grinned back, "Sorry, Doc- I mean, Krospell. It's just a habit."

Nodding, the ship surgeon turned back to fill out the clipboard resting on his desk, Tintin stood, holding his hand close to his chest.

"Well, I, uh, better get back to work. Thank you, again."

" _Ja,_ I believe that is wise." Krospell muttered, dragging Tintin's borrowed chair back behind his desk, "I should return to my post as well..."

Lowering himself to fill out the latest incident report, Krospell didn't stop writing until he heard the boy's footsteps recede and the door to his office close with a thud, the force rattling Bianca on the shelf. With a huff, Krospell shoved the clipboard and pen back in the drawer, burying his face in his hands.

 _"Dummkoff, Dummkoff, Dummkoff..."_ he whispered, wringing his fingers over his faded cap, "How could I be so careless?"

He stayed in that position till the pressure from his glasses against his face made him lower his palms, his hands falling heavily against the table. Carefully, he took off his sunglasses, rubbing his watering, sensitive eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

In dire need of actual sleep, Krospell rose slowly to his feet and and made his way to his bunk. Crawling up underneath the thin sheets, he delivered a swift kick to the board above his bed, silencing the Nightingale for the night. Rolling to his side to face the wisps of light making their way through the porthole in the door, he rested his head on top of his favorite cap, the bundled hat offering more cushion than the pillow alone could provide.

However, even shrouded in the darkness of his own office, Krospell couldn't hide forever and, unseen by anyone else aboard the _Karaboujan_ , the shivering man allowed his long fingers resting his arm to run over the phantom pains hiding behind the remnants of a hasty black tattoo.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Hello fellow readers! I am back and with a brand new chapter too!_**

 ** _**Throws confetti** Hoorayyy!_**

 ** _All joking aside, I apologize for the lateness of this chapter. Writers block hit me like a truck and I simply could not figure out a way to continue the story from where it left off. Do not fret! This story WILL NOT be scrapped, abandoned or discontinued. I will try to update as much as possible but, with a busy schedule, things can get a little hairy with updates and may not get an update again until next month._**

 ** _Thank you again for all who have commented, followed or even just viewed my story while I was in unexpected hiatus. I hope that now and continuing into the future updates will happen more often until it is once a month again._**

 ** _I believe this will be my last author's note for this story. Thank you once again for your time and patience in this story! I hope to update again soon and until the next chapter I guess I'll just say._**

 ** _Cheerio!_**

 ** _~ SeagullandCrossiant_**


	10. Ch 10: Of Shadows and Cabin Boys

**_Chapter 10: Of Shadows and Cabin Boys_**

 _My Dearest-,_

Tintin looked at the paper he had written on, then shook his head and crumpled it up, beginning again.

 _Dear Captain-,_

"No, that won't do," he muttered as the second paper joined the first on the floor.

 _My-,_

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Tintin cried, tossing his pencil and paper into the air, "This is getting me nowhere!"

Snowy glanced up from his spot on the floor before laying back down.

Tintin put his head in his hands, grunting in frustration. For the past three days, he had been trying to write a letter to Captain Haddock, but without much success. Every time he tried, he failed within the first sentence, the lad never deciding what to tell the Captain first.

"I'm a reporter, for crying out loud! Writing an introduction should be a walk in the park, right Snowy?"

There was silence.

"Snowy?"

Tintin turned to look at Snowy, relieved that his canine companion was still there, even if he was giving Tintin an odd stare.

 _Sometimes, I swear that dog can talk_ , Tintin thought as he gathered the abandoned papers off the floor. _No doubt he calls me a fool at least seven times a day!_

As Tintin sat back at the desk again, he heard a noise to his right. He quickly shifted his attention to a sailor rushing into the radio room.

"Do you have a message?" Tintin asked, looking the wheezing man up and down.

"Knives," the sailor responded, in a gasp of breath.

Tintin blinked. "Sorry?"

"Knives, you idiot! Where are the knives?"

" _What_ knives?"

The sailor groaned, banging his fist against the wall. "Ernie! That cheat!"

"What's Ernie got to do with anything?" Tintin questioned, eyebrows furrowing, "If you don't have a message, then, please -."

"No! You don't understand. He told me he'd leave Ming's knives in here with you!"

"Well, he hasn't." Tintin paused, "And, I still don't know what you're talking about!"

"YOU!"

Tintin and the sailor jumped as a new but familiar voice joined the commotion. In a flash, Ming caught up to the sailor, grabbing hold of his arm.

"Where are my knives?" Ming demanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. "What have you done with them?!"

"What knives?" The sailor asked, feigning innocence.

"'What knives?'" Ming repeated. "'What knives?!' The knives you buffoons stole for target practice from my kitchen! Where _are_ they?"

"Oh," the sailor said weakly, " _Those_ knives."

Ming grabbed the sailor's ear. "Yes," he whispered. " ** _Those_ ** knives."

"Gentlemen, please!" Tintin interrupted, finally able to break from his stupor and move from his chair, "There's no need to fight in the radio room! There's a lot of equipment in here."

Ming glared at him. "OH~! You're one to talk about messing up equipment. I seem to recall a certain incident in the kitchen _with your dog!_ I'm still cleaning mashed potatoes off of the ceiling!"

Tintin winced, the memory now fresh in his mind as his hand gave a painful throb.

 _Great job, Tintin._

Ming shot him one last poisonous glare before beginning to drag the yelping sailor out by the ear.

"I'll have you mop that ceiling spotless when I'm done with you!" Ming shouted, ignoring the sailor's pleas.

Tintin couldn't bear to watch any longer, the opportunity slipping from his fingertips.

"Wait!" He cried, causing Ming to stop in his tracks, "What if I found your knives?"

The chief snorted, "Fat chance of that happening." He paused. "But, if you do... we'll be even." And with that, he dragged the poor sailor, who was shooting Tintin icy looks, out of the door.

Tintin, mind still tumbling over what he had seen, sank back into his chair.

"Well, at least I know what I'll tell Papa about first..."

* * *

Hours later, Tintin found his eyes wandering once again to the clock on his table. Just a few more minutes before his lunch break, and better yet, a chance for finding the knives.

Maybe, he reasoned, it would better his chances at getting along with the rest of the crew. Ever since the incident in the kitchen, the Karaboujan crew was avoiding Tintin and his terrier like the plague, disaster and trouble following them like a shadow.

"Who am I kidding?" Tintin asked himself aloud. "There's almost no chance of making up that fiasco."

There was a knock on the door, and Tintin turned to find Tom, his lunch replacement, grinning at him.

"Hey, Tom."

"Hey, Red. How's your morning?"

Tintin shrugged. "Alright, I guess. Strange... but alright."

"Yeah, I heard about the knives." Tom chuckled. "Ming is going off on everyone."

"What does Captain Allan say?"

Tom frowned. "He hasn't come out of his office all day."

"Oh," Tintin said. "That's odd."

Tom shrugged, entering the room and closing the door behind him. "Not really. He's just checking to see if we're still heading to Bagghar. Making sure we don't end up in the Sahara. Fun stuff like that." He took a seat on the spare chair beside Tintin.

"What about you?" Tintin asked, taking off his headset.

"I've just been making the rounds, making sure things are running smoothly... or, as smoothly as they can with Ming issuing death threats left and right."

Tom's eyes wandered up to a space above Tintin's head, a small smile breaking on his lips.

"Don't look now," Tom whispered, his eyes glittering in amusement, "But, you have a shadow."

Tintin paused and turned slowly around, following Toms bright gaze.

There at the door, a pair of dark eyes stared back.

Not a pair of eyes, Tintin realized with a start, but a pair of sunglasses. The whole porthole window was taken up by a strange face, the mouth and nose covered up by a green scarf, the frayed yellow ends peeking out from underneath the large wrap. Between the spaces the scarf and round sunglasses took up, the man sported deathly pale skin, curly and unruly dark hair framing his ghostly appearance. However, as soon as Tintin caught sight of him, the man ducked with a small sound and scurried across the deck, disappearing down the stairs and out of sight.

Blinking in surprise, Tintin looked back at Tom, who calmly donned the headset. "Who was that, Tom?"

Tom, still staring over Tintin's head after the mysterious man, chuckled, "That's Little John." He explained, looking back at Tintin's gaze, "Although, if that's his real name, we're not sure. He's never told us otherwise."

"Why?"

Tom gave the radio man a shrug, "You can say Little John is a... man of few words." There was a pause as Tom's smile slightly deflated. "He's very shy and is rarely seen without his scarf and sunglasses on." Tom scoffed, "We could be in the dying in the Sahara from heat stroke and he wouldn't dare part from them."

"Perhaps they're sentimental to him." Tintin pondered aloud, standing and gathering his spare pencils and papers.

"Maybe," Tom murmured, looking out where Little John disappeared.

"I still feel bad for him though..." Tom whispered, adjusting the headset to fit his larger skull, before turning the radio back on. "He's a crow in a flock of doves."

* * *

Tintin held his breath in anticipation.

There, sweeping the deck, was Little John.

And he wasn't much to look at.

After spending his entire lunch time searching high and low throughout the Karaboujan for Ming's knives, Tintin found him working on the open main deck, carefully mopping the wooden planks. Little John dunked the dingy mop back in the bucket, stretching with his palms pressed to the small of his back. He grunted as his back popped, rubbing the sore spot with a gloved hand, the black, silky glove rustling against his oversized sweater.

Looking at Snowy, Tintin was unsure what to do. He wanted to approach the man but, didn't want to scare him. Remembering what Tom told him, Tintin recalled that Little John was as shy as a deer, and Tintin didn't want to make the mistake of chasing him away.

 _Perhaps he just needs a friend..._ Tintin mused as he came out from his spot around the corner, his legs no longer doing his bidding. _I know I do._

Praying his plan would work, Tintin took a deep breath before smiling toward the man. Little John still had his back toward Tintin, concentrated on his work.

"Hi, there! I'm Tint-."

Before the radio man could even finish his sentence, the cabin boy whirled around, the wet end of his mop colliding with Tintin's legs, sweeping them out from underneath him. The action sent Tintin sprawling on his back, grunting as his body landed heavily on the ground. Dazed, the lad looked up to see the hovering face of Little John...

His _full_ face, to be exact.

Lurid and wide-eyed, Little John had the completion of a ghost, his ragged green scarf undone in the momentum of his sweeping attack. His mouth was formed in the shape of the letter O, a pink, raised scar on his upper lip framing his surprise. High over his head, he wielded his weapon of choice, a dripping mop, which quickly pooled into a puddle on the floor. Blinking, the man lowered his mop, staring at Tintin with a mixture of awe and surprise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." Tintin apologized, pushing himself up to his feet.

Still surprised, the timid cabin boy took a step back when Tintin managed to rise to his feet, his gloved grip tightening around the mop's wooden handle. Remaining silent, the mysterious man peered at Tintin curiously from the corner of his eyes, every muscle tense under Tintin's concerned gaze.

"Are you alright? Not too shaken I hope."

Silence.

"Well... um... my name's Tintin. What's yours?"

Visibly relaxing after another moment of silence, Little John held up a gloved finger, reaching and pulling something out of his back pocket with ease. It was a pencil and notepad and Tintin watched as the graphite swirled against the paper before the man pressed it into his open hands.

 _They call me Little John._

In that moment, Tintin realized why Tom had called Little John a "man of few words."

Little John wasn't just extremely shy.

 **No.**

Little John was mute.

"Little John, huh?" Tintin asked, a gentle smile on his face, "That's a nice name. What do you do on the _Karaboujan_?"

The man held up a finger as he scribbled across a new page.

 _Cabin Boy. I clean messes._

The ship swayed and Little John swayed slightly with it, turning green.

"You alright?"

 _Sorry. I get seasick easily._ He wrote and stuck out a tongue.

Tintin nodded. "I haven't gotten my sea legs yet, either. But a good friend of mine once told me that they'll come in time." He paused, waiting for Little John to reply, but quickly remembered the situation. "I'm the new radio man," he said finally, gesturing vaguely towards the radio room.

Little John nodded once, wringing his hands nervously on the handle of his mop before pulling his scarf back over his face.

Tintin gestured towards Snowy. "This is my dog, Snowy. We've seen quite a bit together, haven't we, boy?"

Snowy yipped in agreement, tail wagging.

Without any visible expression, John lowered to the terrier's level, patting the ground in front of him. Snowy, taking this as an invitation, wasted no time running forward for a good pet, the cabin boy rubbing on his favorite spot behind his ears.

Watching the sailor closely, Tintin came to realize how young the boy was - younger than most men aboard the Karaboujan but still, somehow, older than Tintin.

"How old are you?" Tintin asked, breaking John out of his concentration, "Sorry, I've just noticed there's just not a lot of... _younger -_ , well, I mean, people closer to my age, aboard the Karaboujan."

Straightening up, John gave another unreadable expression, scribbling down his answer on the notepad held tenderly in his hands.

 _I'm older than you think..._ John replied, cocking his head mischievously.

Tintin, chuckling, shrugged his shoulders, "Fair enough, I suppose!"

* * *

After deciphering Little John's vague directions, Tintin resumed his search, looking at his watch as he rounded the next corner.

 _A quarter till two..._ Tintin mused, stomach growling, _I better find Ernie soon._

Not long after, Tintin found himself at the one place he hadn't searched: the bottom of the ship, near the hold.

 _Might as well check in there_ , Tintin told himself. _Ernie was supposed to check those crates today..._

As Tintin pushed open the heavy door, a silver blur sped past his head, striking the wall beside him. Slowly, Tintin turned to see one of Ming's knives- the butcher's knife, to be exact, quivering in the wall about an inch away.

"Hey, knock before you barge in! That was a good shot!"

At this moment, Tintin realized that he wasn't alone in the hold. Eyes quickly adjusting to the light, he spotted several men on the other side of the room. The one who had spoken stood at the front of the pack. He had sandy blond hair and steely gray eyes. In the flickering light, Tintin spotted a glimpse of a lightning-like scar running from the man's forehead to the bottom of his cheek. He was turning another large knife in his meaty hands, a permanent scowl etched onto his face.

"Sorry," Tintin replied cooly. "I didn't realize the hold had become a target range."

"Tintin!" came a voice from the back of the din. Tintin, stretching to look past the burly man, spotted Ernie standing nearby, a cool bottle of ginger ale in his hand. He finally made his way forward, smiling unconvincingly. "Well, I, uh... I see you've met Sharkey. Sharkey, this is Tintin, our new radio man."

At this, there were whispers from the group. Tintin suddenly felt all of his muscles tense, every fiber ready to fight.

Sharkey glared menacingly.

"What brings you down here?" Ernie asked politely.

"Ming told me to come look for you," Tintin said, eyes shifting from the large man to Ernie. "He needs his knives back."

"Does he now?" Sharkey growled.

"Yes," Tintin replied. "Yes, he does." He looked at Ernie. "Why didn't you bring them to him when he asked?"

Ernie winced. "Sorry. I got... sidetracked."

Sharkey cut in before Tintin could reply. "Don't listen to this pipsqueak. If Ming wanted them so badly, he could have come for them himself." He turned to Tintin. "As for you... you had best learn to keep your nose out of other people's business." He turned the knife over in his hands. "If you want to keep it, that is."

"I didn't come for a fight, Mr. Sharkey," Tintin said. "I came to help out a friend. Now, if you'll excuse me." He turned to grab the knife next to his head. "I'll be taking this knife." Before he could pull out the knife, he felt a gust of air above his head. The knife in Sharkey's hand had clipped the top of his quiff before embedding itself into the door. His eyes shot to the blade, then he quickly reached for the handle. A third knife whizzed through the air, painfully pinning his sleeve to the door. He cried out in surprise, the cold steel biting into his arm.

Tintin turned around, watching helplessly as Sharkey began to stalk towards him. Just as Tintin began to prepare himself for a blow, Ernie appeared between them.

"That's enough, Sharkey."

Sharkey growled and pushed Ernie aside, knocking the man to the ground. "Outta my way."

Ernie jumped back up and ran in front of Sharkey, bracing his feet to prevent being pushed over again. "I said, that's enough!"

Sharkey stopped, glaring daggers at Ernie as he shoved him back, away from Tintin.

"I'm done playing games, Sharkey. If you won't take the knives back, I will." With a grunt, Ernie managed to yank the two knives out of the wall before crouching beside Tintin.

"So, what? You're going to protect that pipsqueak now?" A voice called from the glaring men.

"Perhaps I will," Ernie retorted, hands wrapping around the knife's handle, "More than I could say for you!"

At this, Sharkey got incredibly close, his breath tainted with days old whiskey.

"You can't protect them all from everything!" Sharkey hissed, low enough for Ernie and Tintin to only hear.

"Perhaps not!" Ernie growled, working at loosening the blade, "But I know I can protect them from the likes of you!"

Sharkey, baring his teeth, laughed, "Please! Who would want to protect him? After all the pain he's caused us already!"

Sharkey, leaning closer, suddenly became all that Tintin could see. His heart leaped into his throat, and absently, his hand scrambled to get himself free.

"You'll never fit in here Radio Boy!" Sharkey whispered, "As long as I'm around, trust me, I'll make your trip aboard this ship your worst nightmare!" He chuckled, "Your rich little Papa isn't here to save you now!"

With a resounding pop, Ernie managed to unpin Tintin's sleeve from the door. Without hesitation, Tintin bolted from the spot and rushed up the stairs, ignoring Ernie's yells behind him.

Upon reaching the second flight, Tintin ducked under the steps, making himself as small as he could. He listened as Ernie raced past his hiding spot, unseen by the frantic sailor.

"Tintin! Tintin, come back! I can explain!"

Soon, the voice died, leaving Tintin, hands trembling underneath the steps of the Karaboujan. Sitting in the semi-darkness, Tintin felt something hot slide down his cheek. Tenderly, he reached up to touch his face, and, with a shock, realized what he had felt were his own tears.

And silently, he let them fall.


	11. Ch 11: Of Big Guys and Pretty Lies

_Chapter 11: Of Big Guys and Pretty Lies_

It was several minutes before Tintin found the strength to lift his head in the crawl space under the stairs.

Hands shaking, lips trembling, the young man wiped the remaining snot and tears with the back of his hand, muffled sobs now only the occasional sniffle.

Tintin wished to stay in the safety of that small cramped place more than anything, but knew too well that he was extending his welcome. Tom would be wondering what had happened if he didn't return to his post soon and, stealing a glance at his watch, realized his break had ended ten minutes ago. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes with his good hand and, quickly noting the stillness of the air, twisted his body to look around the narrow corridor. The unfamiliar hallway stretched in both directions with no visible end in sight. Swallowing thickly, Tintin's eyes shifted towards the corridor he'd came from minutes before, the open door at the end spilling light into the hallway.

He felt a shiver race down his spine as gruff, throaty laughter drifted from the depths of the hold. Tintin saw the shadows of men coming closer, their silhouettes criss-crossing on the cold, steel floor.

That was enough to make his decision.

He stood from the spot and ran, rushing down the hallway leading towards the port of the Karaboudjan. He made his way as quickly as he could, hoping the sound of his rushing feet wouldn't give away his location to Sharkey or any of his men.

Quickly realizing he wasn't being followed by the brusque crew, Tintin allowed his pace to slow to a stop around a corner, giving himself a chance to catch his breath.

Cautiously, he peered back around.

In all his journeys, from China to Syldavia, he had met many people: young, old, unkind and kind alike.

Sharkey, however, was in a category all his own.

Tintin had met men similar to him before. Cruel, vicious men. Men whose eyes would shine with lust for power, for fortune.

Tintin still shivered at the thought of those eyes. They were the eyes of the men in his worst nightmares. The eyes of someone Haddock, on countless occasions, did his best to shield him from.

They were the eyes of someone who wanted him dead.

If Tintin knew anything, Sharkey was the man one never wanted to cross and, to him, was someone he definitely didn't want to meet again soon.

" _There_ you are!"

With the voice growling behind him, Tintin yelped, twisting to bolt from the spot.

He felt himself choke as a large hand caught the edge his collar, jerking him back and down to the ground with a heavy thud.

"Wait just a minute, boy!" The gruff voice snarled as Tintin was pinned to the spot, "I'm not finished with y0u!"

"No!" The young lad howled, sending a balled fist flying towards his attacker.

The fist made contact and Tintin felt the man release his iron grip on his sweater.

Cursing, the figure reeled back, before landing to the floor with a heavy thud.

Turning over, Tintin scrambled to his feet, clutching his now throbbing hand close to his chest as he stood.

"Don't run from me, Tintin!" The voice called, "That's an order!"

At this, Tintin recognized the voice and stopped in his struggle.

"C-Captain Allan!"

Indeed, the looming captain of the _Karaboudjan_ was sprawled spread-eagled on the floor, hat and trenchcoat knocked askew. He sat up onto his elbows, shooting Tintin a poisonous look as a trickle of blood dripped out of his crooked nose and onto his worn turtleneck.

Tintin, covering his mouth with his hands, stepped towards the fallen man.

"Great snakes! I'm terribly sorry! Here, let me help you-."

" _Don't_." Allan hissed, clutching at his nose, "You've done enough already."

Tintin, legs shaking, felt his face flush in discomfort.

"I'm sorry about that, Captain Allan. I didn't know it was you."

The curt captain shot Tintin a strange look, opening his packet of cigarettes he found in his coat, "Of course it was just me! Who else could I possibly be?"

"N-No one! I was just startled, that's all."

"Right." Allan muttered, chewing on his unlit smoke, "I hope not by being caught doing something you shouldn't."

Tintin frown deepened.

"L-Like what, sir?"

"Like being in the hold by yourself!" Allan spat, smearing the remaining blood of his nose off with his sleeve, "In case you haven't noticed, this isn't some playground. We carry some dangerous cargo aboard this ship. You could get yourself killed if you aren't careful enough! We don't want to have to clean up after a boy who explores too much and pokes his nose where it shouldn't be. So, I better not catch you down here again!"

Tintin's mouth dropped in disbelief, "But, Tom said I might have to come-!"

"I give the orders around here!" Allan fumed, chest growing, "Unless I'm _dead_ , Tom is in charge of nothing and no-one! You are off limits of the hold until I, your captain, tell you otherwise!" He paused, "I understand Ming may have asked you for a favor, but, in the end, I give you the orders and set the rules and _your_ order is to stick to your job. Do I make myself clear?"

Eyes wide, Tintin gave a tentative nod, under Allan's heated gaze.

"Yes. I-I understand, sir."

"Well, what do we have here? A pup being fussed at by his master?" A new voice murmured, chuckling low.

Freezing in place, Tintin felt his blood run cold.

"Careful, Allan." The man purred, "Soon, the new dog will think you hate him."

Slowly, cautiously, Tintin broke out of his stupor and turned to face the gathering pack behind him, easily spotting the menacing form of Sharkey as he walked through his band of equally sour men.

"Hello, Captain! Nice day isn't it?" Sharkey leered, baring his teeth. "Don't you just _love_ the sea?"

Tintin backed from his spot, taking his place beside Allan. Allan glanced briefly at the boy, before meeting eyes with the men in front of them.

"I do, actually. But, you know what I _really_ love?" Allan growled, "The sound of people doing their job."

The small crew snickered at the comment, but, fell silent when the head shot them a dirty look, lip curling up with a sneer.

"Where have you been?" Allan inquired, "Playing with knives again? I thought you knew better." He paused thoughtfully, eyes shining, "Perhaps, working the hold isn't the best for you and your friends. After all, you've been doing it for _years_." Allan gave a smirk, rolling his cigar with his tongue, "Maybe you need something new."

The salty sea captain strode forward, smiling ear to ear as he lit his cig. Tintin watched as he walked around the motley crew at a leisurely pace, before blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.

"Let's think. What job would fit you? I dunno, maybe cleaning the bathroom stalls would do you good? Scrubbing the shower tiles? Peeling all twenty barrels of potatoes? Or, oh! I know! How about you boys clean the decks spotless with _your own spit?"_

He narrowed his eyes, all traces of a smile disappearing from his face.

"Do you knuckleheads need me to say it again?"

The small gathering shook their heads, muttering a soft 'No, sir.'s' to the man standing before them. Sharkey, however, remained silent, nostrils flaring as he stared narrowly at the floor.

Allan smiled and chuckled low at their display.

"Good. I'm glad we're on the same page, now." He gave a collective frown at the gathering of men around him, the auburn haired boy inhaling sharply when his captain's dark eyes fell on him.

"Don't you have somewhere to be? All of you get back to your job already! Go!"

Tintin wasted no time, turning swiftly on his heel and fleeing to the safety of the radio room. He booked up the flights of stairs, taking two at a time as he climbed higher and higher to the surface. He couldn't suppress his gasp for air when he reached the opening, the daylight illuminating the sweat beading down his face.

He found he suddenly couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe!

The young man stumbled over the the railing, leaning over as a wave of nausea hit him.

The cold salty sensation of the sea mist burned as Tintin opened his mouth, gulping at the clear, uncompressed air as it filled his lungs. As he caught his wind from his frantic rush, the young sailor realized he wasn't alone on the deck, managing to spot a few of his fellow crewmates looking at him from the upper deck. Tintin forced himself to straighten and, gathering whatever composure he still had, made a beeline for his post.

It wasn't a surprise to him when he saw Tom sitting at his post, turning the volume of the static down as the young man entered.

"There you are, Tintin, I was starting to get worried!" Tom took a closer look at the young man's flushing face, "Hey, are you ok, Red? You look kinda… well, red."

Tintin nodded. "Fine, Tom. Just fine." He crossed the room to the radio set, taking the headset from Tom into his own trembling hands.

Covering Tintin's hands with his own, he looked into the boy's wide eyes.

"Are you sure? I mean I can-."

"NO!" Tintin exclaimed, maybe a bit louder than he intended, " _No_. I'm fine."

Tom pulled his hand away, furrowing his eyebrows, "Sorry, Tintin, I just wanted to he-."

"I said I'm fine, Tom." Tintin sighed, turning his head to avoid Tom's concerned gaze.

He flipped a few switches on and placed the headset over his ears.

"Sorry. I just got work to do."

* * *

Tintin rolled over, pressing the pillow tighter over his head.

Glad as he was that the horrible day had finally come to an end fairly quickly, Tintin quickly retreated to the the darkness of the cabin at the end of his shift, in hope of some decent, uninterrupted sleep.

Sadly, this short reprise, so far, had not brought him any relief.

"Hey, Nino. Can you kick him again?" There was a scoff below him, "I swear, he snores louder than a freight train."

Tintin sat up and obligingly smacked Ernie's bulging underside with his his heel, numbness spreading to his toes as they made contact with the unmovable mass.

The man sleeping above him shifted in his sleep, murmuring under his breath but was otherwise silent.

"Gracias, Nino," Pedro whispered, settling back into his bunk and falling back asleep.

Tintin did not reply and settled back down in his bed, staring into the semi darkness.

It was very difficult to forget the expression on Captain Allan's face, or the menacing laughter of Sharkey and his men, and between the two terrifying moments, Tintin found he was unable to close his eyes.

That, and the snores. The snores surely weren't helping much either.

Leaning over the hammock, he spotted Snowy, sitting at the bottom of the bed.

Snowy looked up at him, and Tintin chuckled at the rather peeved expression on his dog's face.

"Can't sleep, boy?"

Snowy woofed softly.

"Yeah." Tintin murmured, "Me either."

He pulled his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to hit his head against the sagging bunk above him as he straightened up.

"Where are you going?"

For the upteeth time that day, Tintin felt his heart leap in his chest and he peered over his shoulder. In his hurry, he'd forgotten all about his still awake bunkmate and saw Ernie's eyes staring from above.

Tintin hesitated. "I'm going out," he finally said, "Bit of fresh air."

"Oh." Was all that Ernie responded as Tintin jumped down to the floor without making a sound. As he fumbled through the darkness for his shoes, he heard the upper bunk squeak.

"Tintin?"

Tintin looked up again at the dark shape above him. "What?"

"Don't be out too long…"

Tintin shoved his feet into his shoes, "Uh-huh."

"And, Tintin?"

He looked over his shoulder, seeing a glimpse of his crewmates face.

"Look, for what happened today… I…" He cut himself off, "I'm…"

"Don't mention it, Ernie. Just, don't."

Speechless, Ernie watched as Tintin snatched his coat from off the edge of the bunk and pulled it over his slender shoulders.

"See you around." Tintin hissed, not daring to look back over his shoulder again as he made his way for the cabin door.

* * *

The light of the full moon illuminated the deck as Tintin stepped outside, reflecting off of the water below and making everything seem to glow. Tintin walked to the railing of the ship and looked up at it, wondering if, by some chance, Captain Haddock was looking up at the same night sky.

 _Oh, Papa… I wish you were here with me._

"Red?"

Tintin jumped at the sound of Tom's voice behind him.

"Tom! You scared me!"

In the dim light of the moon, Tintin could make out the strong shoulders leaning on the nearby crate of crab tins as they shook with a chuckle.

"Really skittish, today, Red." Tom spoke as he strolled forward, hands resting across his chest.

Tintin fumbled with the edge of his coat, bringing it closer to him as the wind picked up.

Tom adjusted his tan cap as it was pushed by the breeze, giving the boy an encouraging look.

"Don't be ashamed, Tintin. Anyone would be terrified out of their wits after what you went through."

Tintin stopped playing with the edge of his jacket and looked up.

"You mean, you knew?"

"Not at first." Tom admitted, taking a place beside Tintin on the railing, "Ernie told me what happened."

At his crewmates name, Tintin turned away.

"Did he tell you everything?"

"Yes." Tom nodded, "Right down to the point he was scared out of his mind." Tom felt in his pockets, "He feels awful about it, ya' know."

"Bet he does." Tintin spat, looking over the side.

Tom struck a match against the railing, protecting the flame as he brought it to the cigarette hanging from his lips, but said nothing.

Looking back out over the darkened sky, Tintin felt a crushing weight settle on his shoulders.

Life aboard the Karaboudjan wasn't what he expected at all. Everywhere he looked, he only saw the face of a disappointed captain and heard the sneers and laughter of his peers. Absently, he wiped at his eyes, longing for the warmth of his own bed, the flowers of Calculus' garden, the rolling voice of Haddock wishing him a good day as he took off to the office on his bicycle.

"I've made a huge mistake." Tintin muttered, banging a fist on the railing, "I never should've come here."

"What?" Tom questioned, "Don't tell me you're giving up already!"

Tintin shrugged and gazed out over the rolling sea around them.

"I've been thinking, Tom. Maybe this isn't the life for me." He paused, "Maybe I'm just meant to be a errand boy for the paper."

"Aw! Chin up! Things will get better, Tintin!" Tom assured him. "You just gotta... uh... get your sea legs!"

"My sea legs?"

"Yeah!" Tom exclaimed, patting Tintin on the back, "Getting the hang of something new doesn't happen overnight, you know. Takes practice!" He gave a sly grin, "And I've got plenty of it!" Tom laughed, shooting Tintin a mischievous wink.

Tintin, smiling slightly, looked over the sea.

"Thanks, Tom. That really... thanks."

"Anytime, par'ner!" Tom guffawed, shooting finger guns at a defenseless Tintin.

Laughing at the fingers poking his side, Tintin playfully swat Tom away, the warmth, even just for a brief moment, returning to his chest.

With the warmth, however, came a wide yawn and Tom gave the boy a sympathetic look.

"Come on, Tintin. You've had a busy day. I think you should be getting some shut eye."

"What about you?"

"Me? I got an unexpected night shift." Tom rolled his eyes, "Typical."

They stood on the deck in silence, Tintin rubbing his arm.

"Hey, Tom?"

"Yeah?" He asked, looking the boy up and down.

Tintin stared into the sailor's eyes, wrinkled at the edges with a soft smile. Somehow strange and familiar all at once.

Tintin opened his mouth, but found no words. Instead, he felt his feet move him forward, his arms outstretched. Next thing he knew, he was wrapped around Tom's torso, days old sweat, grime and dust seeping through the fabric. The man couldn't move, frozen with his arms out by his sides as the grip on his sweater increased.

"Thank you." Tintin whispered into Tom, "Thank you."

They stood upon the deck for what seemed like ages, before Tintin felt the strong arms pull him closer, the sailor resting his cheek on top of the young man's head.

"Anytime, Tintin. Anytime."

* * *

Long after he and Tintin had parted in their embrace, Tom remained on the deck, finishing his smoke as he stared over the waves.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been hugged and mentally, he tried to capture the warmth he felt in the almost forgotten gesture. Tom absently touched his chest, where the boy's head had been an hour before.

Till that moment, Thomas Peeters hadn't realized how much he missed the feeling.

He tossed his cigarette overboard and exhaled the last of his smoke towards the twinkling sky.

 _By God_ , he had missed it.

"Didn't your mom teach you not to throw things in the ocean, Thomas?"

Tom turned around, blinking in surprise as Allan Thompson, his omnipresent captain, stepped out of the shadows, an unlit cigarette fastened between his pearly teeth. At the sight of his companion, Tom sighed.

"How long have you been lurking there?"

"Long enough." Allan responded, waving it off with his hand, the edge of his mouth twitching. "I have to say, that was a pretty lie you made for our radio boy. " he walked away from the open doorway, "Too bad I see right through it."

"It was pretty, wasn't it?" Tom replied, the edge of his mouth twitching into a smirk, "But it worked, didn't it? The boy didn't question a thing."

"For now, at least." Allan mused, leaning heavily against the railing as he looked over the side.

Allan struck a spare match from his coat, Tom watching as his captain lit his cigarette. He rolled it in his figures, letting the spark consume the dull butt of his cig.

"So?" Tom prodded, taking a spot closer to Allan, "What did Boss say?"

" 'Bout what?" Allan asked, staring into the dying match he held precariously in his hand.

"About _Tintin_..." Tom sighed, "About his dog, about, well, about everything?"

Allan made an incoherent noise, watching as the charred match fell over the side of the ship and into the sea.

"He said nothing. Told me - _us_ \- to keep a close eye on him, make sure he's doing everythin' alright." Allan paused, a frown deepening the lines around his mouth as he exhaled the smoke.

"I know you lie to the boy," Tom muttered, fiddling his fingers, "But, you don't have to lie to me, you know."

"You wouldn't understand, Tom."

"I'm your friend, Al." Tom protested, placing a hand on the captain's shoulder, "Of course I'd understand!"

"It's not that simple, ya' buffoon!" Allan growled, shaking off Tom's grip.

The silence was strong between them and Tom held an unyielding gaze.

"Please, Al, just tell me."

The man stared at his feet, his stone-faced look melting into something more worrisome.

"Al?"

"Boss isn't happy. Not one bit."

Tom felt the color drain from his face.

Allan continued.

"He said we need to get things straightened out aboard this ship or he's gonna' come straighten things out himself."

"What? No, he wouldn't."

"Believe me, Tom. From the way he sounded, he certainly would."

"What's he want you to do?"

"Push the boy harder. Make sure he doesn't step out of line."

"He's a _boy_ , Allan." Tom retorted, rolling his eyes, "Not some pet you can train on a leash."

Allan shook his head, "We can't afford to lose another shipmate, Tom." He paused, "Look, Boss would ring our necks if we have to find someone else. We can't have a crewmate have another accident."

Tom twisted in his place, hand gripping the railing, "An _accident?_ You decided to call what happened an _accident_?"

Allan, raising his eyes, gave a small shrug, "That's what everyone else said it was. An. Accident."

Tom stared at Allan, mouth agape, "You can't be serious."

Allan met his gaze, "Whatcha' mean?"

"Don't you play dumb." Tom hissed, "You know _damn_ well what I mean." He lowered his glare, eyes meeting the brackish water below, "You forget who saw it happen."

Allan, sighing, rubbed the stubble starting to grow in abundance on his chin, "Don't get attached to him, Tom. He might only be temporary."

Tom, scoffing, looked back over the side of the _Karaboudjan,_ shaking his head _._

"Figures..." Tom grumbled as he lit another cigarette, the sparks of his lighter illuminating the heat of his gaze, "Get the perfect man for the job but fear his family will hold 'im back." He breathed out the smoke through his nostrils, the bull burning his lungs, "Boss is such a dumb-."

A sharp sensation shot across his mouth and cheek, the cigarette falling from his lips as the embers burned holes in his shirt front. Tom cursed aloud, holding his side of the face that stung with pins and needles, a hot-red mark forming where he had been struck. Blinking in shock, Tom looked up to find Allan, gripping a now sore hand and glowering in unbridled anger.

"Shut up, you absolute idiot! Unless you want something worse than a scar across your face, I would suggest keeping your bloody mouth shut!"

Tom, rubbing his cheek, looked at his feet, an empty soda can hitting his toes with the swaying ship. Snarling, he kicked the loose can, sending it flying to the other end of the deck, where it wedged between two crates.

"You just think ' To Hell with it,' for everything!"

The second mate sent Allan stumbling backwards with a hard shove.

"You're nothing but a deadbeat excuse of a captain."

Allan stepped forward, taking a fistful of Tom's turtleneck in his hand as he did so.

" _Listen closely_." Allan hissed, voice tight, "I do what I do to keep you and the rest of us alive. This includes taking orders from Boss." He leaned in closer to Tom, traces of whiskey on his breath, "But don't you _ever_ think for _one second_ that I don't care."

The pair were silent as they stared intently at each other, each waiting for the other to speak, to move. Allan, realizing how he was holding onto his crewmates shirt, slowly released his hold on Tom, taking two steps back from his disgruntled crewmate.

Tom stumbled back, breath coming in a short burst as his hands traveled where Allan's fist had been moments before. With the cool wind, Tom realized his hat had fallen off his head. He didn't dare to move to pick it up.

"Keep an eye on him, Tom." Allan looked aside, "That's an _order_."

With only by the sound of the wind to fill in the tension between them, Allan turned and started back to his cabin, his long coat blowing behind him as he stalked away, leaving

Tom, standing alone and dumbfounded on deck.

Tom stared after him, hands clutching his turtleneck till it was a wadded mess in his hands. He didn't realize there were tears until the felt the cold sensation travel down a still stinging cheek and he quickly reached up to wipe his eyes with the back of his sleeve. Bending over to retrieve his fallen hat, Tom spotted the burning embers and ground his fallen cigarette till was nothing but ash and dust, watching the remnants as they were carried away by the whistling wind.

"Aye, Aye, _Captain..._ "


	12. Ch 12: Of Mischief and Misunderstandings

**_Chapter 12: Of_ _Mischief_ _and Misunderstandings_**

Tintin was up before they had even reached the port.

He could see it from where he sat in his office. A sliver of land peering over the horizon with the morning sun casting it's first rays of morning light across the _Karaboudjan_ and the sprawling city of Bagghar.

Every time another sailor would emerge from his bunk, the young man would act as busy as he could, scribbling bit of illegible nonsense into a spare piece of paper as they momentarily looked in and moved on. In all reality, however, Tintin was too eager to fully work and only did as far as he was told by the occasional sailor who actually stopped to talk or bark a command. But every spare second, he would take his time to stare, mesmerized by the welcome sight of solid ground.

He had been feigning work for the better part of an hour when he heard the gruff voice of his captain at the doorway.

"Morning, Radio Boy."

Tintin looked up from fiddling with the radio knobs and slipped off his headgear. "Good morning, Captain Allan, sir."

"Any messages?" The sea dog questioned, digging out his cigarette case from his pocket.

Tintin shook his head. "Far and few between, sir. We do, however, have permission from the docking station to port, sir."

Allan grunted, placing an unlit cigarette between his teeth. "Good. I'll need you to check us in at the dock then come back to my office immediately."

Tintin leaned back in his seat, heart sinking. "But, what about the radio? The port?"

"Don't mind the radio. There will be more messages for you to send later, after we've left Bagghar." He paused, taking a moment to light his cig, "And don't you worry about land. There'll be other chances for you to go."

"How long will we be staying?" Tintin asked, fiddling with a rather large screw resting on the table.

Allan stared at him, amber eyes narrowed. "Long enough to get a few necessary supplies and refuel. Overnight, perhaps. Then we'll be off again."

"Oh…" The screw rolled out of reach and out of sight, landing with a soft tink behind the desk. He didn't bother to fetch it. "What sort of supplies?"

"Small odds and ends. Mostly things for Ming's pantry."

"Do you need any extra men to go ashore?" Tintin asked, hope rising in his chest. "Maybe I can help since, well, since I'm not needed at the radio for a while. A-After I check us in, of course!"

Allan hesitated, continuing to stare at the boy. "Tom's got it taken care of, I'm sure." At the mention of Tom, Tintin thought he saw the Captain grimace, but the expression was gone as fast as it had come. "I think… what's his name? Ernest? No, Ernie! He's supposed to join him."

Now it was Tintin's turn to make a face, frowning at the sound of his crewmate's name. Allan took note of this and chewed lightly on his cigarette.

"What? Why the face? You got somethin' wrong with Ernie?"

Tintin looked back at the silent radio. "No. I just-."

"Don't lie to me."

At the growl, Tintin met the captain's stern gaze, offputting as it was sudden. Muttering under his breath, Allan shook his head.

"Look. I know we don't all get along. This is a tight ship, a cargo freighter with walls and spaces we all share, whether we like it or not." He rubbed his temple, "God. I'm talkin' down to you like I'm your dad or somethin'... The point is, it's none of my business what happened between you two and really, I don't care. I do, however, care about keeping this crew as together as much as I can."

Allan's face shifted, a rare smirk crossing his lips, "I think I've changed my mind, Radio Boy. I'm sending you with Tom and Ernie instead."

Tintin caught himself on the table's ledge. "W-What?"

"You heard me. Whatever disagreement you had with Ernie needs to be fixed. Right here, right now."

"If you don't mind me being bold in asking, sir…" Tintin began, wringing his hands, "Why are you so… concerned?"

Allan blinked before removing his cigarette, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.

"I can't have my Radio Boy and Muscle Man at odds with each other. Ties lost between the Man of Communication and the Man of Action don't mix well. _Especially_ for others trying to get a job done." He waved his cigarette, dispersing wisps of smoke into the air, " Just… don't be picking any fights while my back is turned. I saved your butt once from bein' beaten to a pulp. I _won't_ save it again."

"I...uh… understand, sir."

"Good." Allan nodded, "Let's keep it that way. Stay close to Tom. We wouldn't want you to be left behind. And tell that port security we're on our way in."

Tintin gritted his teeth to form a semblance of a smile, flipping on the radio once more. "Aye, aye, captain."

* * *

Tintin took a deep breath of the salty air as he stepped off of the _Karaboudjan_ for the first time since taking the position as radio boy, for the first time since leaving Marlinspike.

The Bagghar Bazar was alive with the sound of music, the smell of food, and the sight of people milling about. Walls of local buildings were lined with merchants selling everything from jewels, to wool, to candy. As they strolled through, a center square became visible, more merchants came to light and with them, a whole new atmosphere of wonder and excitement. He stepped back as a group of children ran by, laughing. He made way for a middle-aged woman carrying jars and a chubby baby at her hip. He slowed down to let his fingers grace an aging donkey as it passed. To Tintin, the sight of other living, breathing beings was a gust of fresh air and, taking this all in, he felt a new wind kick into him.

"Can we go back to the ship? The sun's killin' me."

Alas, that moment was not to last.

The rough, tired voice brought Tintin's rush of excitement to a grinding halt and, sighing, he turned to look at the man standing in wait behind him, his broad shoulders nearly blocking the path they were taking.

A figure from his right stepped forward, shaking his head.

"Not yet. We haven't even gotten through the list yet." Tom held up the battered piece of paper, covered with Ming's tidy print with the messy scrawl of other sailors' requests squeezed into the margins.

Ernie gave a deep sigh, hand resting on one of his exposed and scalding shoulders. "Can we just hurry, then? It's hotter than Hades out here."

Tintin clenched his jaw and turned away, purposefully standing on the other side of Tom as the trio continued down the crowded streets of Bagghar.

"Let's see…" Tom stared at the list in his hand, oblivious to Tintin's visible irritation. "We still need to get rope, bread, nails…"

Tintin turned to look at some of the pop-up booths they were passing, ignoring the rest of Tom's list. Tom seemed to know where they needed to go and Tintin was content to let him lead, trying his hardest to completely ignore the third member of their party.

"I have a friend who lives in Bagghar." Tintin started, as they stopped a merchant's station, "His name's Senhor Oliveira. If I talked to him, we could get all our supplies in one place."

" _Could_. You say _could_..." Ernie pointed out as he tugged at his sticking threadbare tank, "What if he doesn't have everything we need? There are plenty of markets here. I'm sure we will find everything if we look around some more."

"Which would involve looking at every table," Tintin stated. "But if you want to stay in the sun longer, that's fine with me. I hope you don't get dehydrated." He flushed. "How about I get you a nice, cold _ginger ale_?"

Ernie, pausing in wiping his brow, lowered his hand to rest on his hip, "Excuse me?"

"Real tasty. What a _refreshing_ drink with such _sharp_ carbonation!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I'm still mad at you, you know!" Tintin huffed, "You! Sharkey! The-The games, the knives! All of it!" He jammed a finger into Ernie's broad chest, "Don't you dare act like it didn't happen!"

Ernie swatted Tintin's hand away in one fell swoop.

"What the Hell? What do you mean 'act like it didn't happen'?"

"I don't trust you, Ernie." Tintin hissed, lower than his breath, "You _or_ Sharkey."

"You're being ridiculous! Tell him how ridiculous he's being, Tom!"

The pair turned to look at Tom, then froze.

"Tom?"

The third sailor was nowhere to be seen. Swept away by a sea of moving people, most likely still rattling off the list of things that needed to be done.

"He's gone!" Tintin gasped, grasping at his wrist, "If Allan finds out, he's going to kill us!"

Ernie turned back to face the younger boy, a strange look crossing his face.

Then, in a flash of a fist, Tintin felt himself being gripped by his sweater and pulled into the nearby alley.

"What are you doing?!" Tintin yelped, stumbling over his feet as he was yanked further into the dimly lit slit. He fought back, hitting whatever solid mass he could get his fist to.

"Let me go!" Tintin cried, "You won't get away with this! Let me go!"

Ernie snarled at the fists' fleeting impact but, in one jerk, hauled the boy closer.

"Sh!" Ernie snapped, clapping a hand over Tintin's mouth. "Don't say a word!"

Tintin attempted to make noise, to scream but, with Ernie's gloved palm clamped over his mouth, nothing escaped and the boy struggled in the man's vice-like grip.

"Quiet!" Ernie whispered urgently as his gaze shifted to the street. "Do you want to get caught?"

Tintin glared at up at him, still pushing and sputtering against the bitter taste of his glove. Using a free hand, Ernie wordlessly pointed out into the crowds and Tintin followed his finger and felt his eyes widen.

A hulking silhouette made it's way around the corner, bearing a sharp-toothed grin.

 _Sharkey._

And he wasn't alone.

The rather large man and his three just as large cronies stood at a nearby merchant's table, their conversation muffled by the noise of the street. The elderly merchant held up one of his most polished pieces, a silver watch, which glittered and shone in the piercing sunlight. Although their words were unclear, the seller talked eagerly about his jewel, but was silenced when Sharkey held up a meaty hand. The scar-faced man dug in his pockets and produced a few coins and a paperclip, not even half of the pocketwatch's worth. The merchant opened his mouth in protest but, was pushed into silence once more as the three other men drew up around him.

Opening and closing his mouth, the man lowered his gaze and took the money out of the Sharkey's open palm and shakily, handed over his pocketwatch.

Laughing, they bid the old man a bitter goodbye and, for good measure, the last of the men slapped the underside of the merchant's hand, sending the worthless pennies flying in the air before landing in the dust.

From the safety of the shadows, Ernie shook his head.

"Brutes. All of them."

As the men disappeared into the crowds, Ernie removed his hand from over Tintin's mouth.

"And what about you?" Tintin asked, spitting out the bitter taste of gasoline. "Aren't you their friend, too?"

Face blanched, Ernie shook his head. "Of course not!"

Tintin blinked in unbridled surprise, "But, I thought,-."

"They are no friends of mine." He met Tintin's eyes. "They threatened Little John."

"What?"

"Little John. They threatened him. Said they would do h- horrible things if I didn't take the knives and join them in the hold to throw them." He swallowed, a visible lump forming in his throat, " I know what I did wasn't the best, but, I never wanted them to hurt you, I swear!"

Tintin opened his mouth but, said nothing.

"After you left, I promised myself that I would never let myself into their company again. I already know I have to keep a closer eye on Little John but, I can't let them hurt you, either, or anyone else."

Tintin, back pressed against the brick, found himself speechless.

"So, now you know." Ernie sighed. Face stern, he pressed a finger into Tintin's ribs, "If you tell anyone, I mean _anyone,_ about this, I will know. I can't have my reputation turned to 'Ernie, the big softie.'"

"What about Allan?" Tintin inquired, "Couldn't he do something about this?"

Scratching under his wrinkled cap, Ernie shook his head, "No. Not really."

"What do you mean not really? He's the captain, right?"

"He is." Ernie scoffed, "But I think he's too busy for... things like this."

"But-But he helped us out!"

"Wha'?"

"He sent me to be with you. To, uh, try to settle our differences."

The burly sailor rolled his eyes, scoffing, "You're new. You're different. This...This isn't the first time this has happened, Tintin."

"Are you…" Tintin trailed, "Are you scared of them?"

Ernie's eyebrows furrowed, a frown hardening his features.

"Not of what they'll do to me. This… This has been going on for a long time, Tintin. Allan's probably tired of hearing it by now."

Tentatively, the pair stuck their heads out and did a sweep before emerging from their hiding spot.

"That doesn't seem too fair." Tintin murmured, hands hanging at his sides.

Ernie gave a sympathetic sigh before placing a hand on Tintin's shoulder, "Sometimes, things just aren't, Tintin."

Tintin sighed, but before he could say a word, a loud voice cut across the crowd.

" _There_ you are!"

Tom pushed his way across the street to them, arms full of wrapped parcels and a basket that clucked softly. "Where have you two been? I ask for some extra help, turn around for two minutes and you completely disappear!"

Tintin and Ernie exchanged a look before offering sheepish smiles.

"Sorry, Tom," Tintin apologized, reaching over to take some of the packages from Tom. "We just got distracted. Anything else do we need to get?"

"I think we only need one or two more things," Tom said, managing to pull out the worn paper from his back pocket. "Just rope," he clarified.

"I think I saw some in a booth near the dock," Ernie suggested, taking some of the other bags from Tom and turning back towards the port.

Arms full of supplies, Ernie and Tintin led the way back towards the ship, Tom following close behind with a confused expression on his face.

"Are you two okay?" He finally asked. "You aren't arguing anymore." His eyes widened, "Oh no. You didn't fistfight in an ally, did ya?"

Tintin and Ernie glanced at each other, eyes shining.

"No. No fistfights." Tintin said, offering a small smile. "I think we're good now."

Ernie, placing the hen under his arm, offered the same in return.

"Yeah, I guess we are."


	13. Of Business Calls and Unwelcome Brawls

_**Chapter 13: Of Business Calls and Unwelcome Brawls**_

Allan, lowering the cigarette from his lips, stopped to lean against the steel wall of the _Karaboudjan_.

The salty sea captain still felt strained, pulled to his limit, like butter spread over too much toast.

The bazar trip had been a success and setting sail from the post of Bagghar was smooth, of course.

That had not been enough, however, to calm his throbbing nerves.

He let the smoke seep from his open mouth and absently, he tugged at his ear.

He could still hear him. The Boss' gravely voice, still ringing and hissing long after the end of the radio call.

He had ordered the man on night shift to step out of the booth. Plenty away. He couldn't have any witnesses or eavesdroppers with this call.

But, by God, he wished he could.

He glanced at his watch, tapping the surface angrily.

 _It's not that late, is it?_

Indeed, the hands were well past the three o'clock mark and, in turn with the news, he took a drag.

 _He sounded serious this time…_ He continued to muse, closing his weary eyes, _Surely he wouldn't… he couldn't..._

He shook his head, shaking every rabbit hole of endless possibility out of his throbbing skull.

 _ **Enough**_ _. Talk to Boss later. It's time to go to bed._

With a groan, Allan pushed himself off of the wall and down the swaying hallway, past the hissing pipes and quarters full of his sleeping crew. He winced at the sound of deafening snores through the open doorway.

 _That door never shuts right_. Allan brooded, hissing heavily through his nostrils, _I have to remember to get someone to look at it. Again._

Wrapping his free hand around the handle, he began to push it shut, stopping to leave it just wide enough to steal a glance inside.

Holding his breath, he peered through the semi-darkness, eyes filtering over the rising breath of his men. He felt the air leave him as he spotted the forms he was looking for. Three men and a little dog, curled in a snoring line of hanging beds.

They all looked peaceful and happy enough. Surely his unsteadiness was for-.

He saw a flash of white from the middle as the dog raised his head and growled low towards the intruder. Cursing, Allan hurried out of the opening, the cigarette he held falling from his mouth. He pressed his back against the door to shut it. He heard the boy stir, muttering a soft command to the now fully alert and awake terrier.

"Good boy, Sn'wy," he heard Tintin whisper from behind the closed door and, quietly, Allan picked up his fallen smoke and continued his trek down the hall.

 _They're all fine. They're all there_ , Allan reassured himself. _Most are. Maybe I should check in there too._

He twisted the burning cig in his fingers.

 _Maybe I shouldn't. Serve the stubborn jerk right._

Ultimately, Allan Thompson knew avoiding him was inevitable.

Turning a corner, he saw it. Rusting and old and ugly as a sore thumb.

The door to Tom's suite, just as he remembered, next to his own.

 _More like a remodeled broom closet._

Allan had the entire ship memorized from top to bottom. All passageways, closets, and rooms. Tom's room, however, was still a mystery to him.

It was as if it had appeared out of thin air. One minute he was in the sleeping quarters with the rest of the men and the next, Allan found him stringing a hammock in the empty storage space next to his cabin. He'd pulled Tom out of the cramped space and asked him how this had come about so suddenly. Tom had flinched, and it was only then Allan noted the sunken eyes and pale features of his right-hand man.

"I can't sleep Al." He had whispered, "Not at all."

So, that had been that and no one had questioned it since. Tom still remained at his post, got better even. After all, he was Allan Thompson's right-hand man. Surely, he needed a space to call his own? Didn't he deserve it, in some strange way?

Allan rolled his eyes, kicking the door of his First Mate's broom closet of a bedroom before going on his way.

"Stupid Tom. Stupid boy. Stupid… _stupid!"_

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he fished for his keys for his upcoming room. Hands filtering over receipts and empty cigarette packets, he hissed in frustration when he didn't feel the cold metal ring.

"Where are they?" Allan muttered, placing his hand against the steel door of his quarters, "Surely I would've-."

He felt icy fingers trace his spine as the door gave way to the weight of his palm and watched, wide eyed, as it swung slowly open.

"Had it…"

He straightened up and stared into the darkness of his cabin.

"Tom?" He called, voice low, "You here?"

Silence.

Allan's eyes narrowed and he lowered his hand.

"Tom. If this is some sort of joke..."

He stepped into the dark room, listening for any telltale sound of another presence. A sudden scuffling of papers caused him to turn quickly, but the darkness hid his desk from view.

"This isn't funny, Tom," Allan said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "Look, if this is about earlier this week, I-."

"Tom's not here."

The door slammed shut.

"But, I am."

In a flash of twisting longcoat, Allan drew his automatic from the holster at his waist and aimed into the shadows.

"Alright, wise ass. Step into the light where I can see you. No funny business."

A match flared in the dark, illuminating the grinning face behind the noise.

The scarred face, crooked nose, sharp teeth.

"Sharkey." Allan's scowled, not lowering the gun. "What do _you_ want?"

"Now, now, is that the way Allan Thompson talks to ol' friends?" He smirked, seemly unconcerned with the barrel of a pistol trained on his exposed chest. "No wonder you and Tom aren't on speaking terms."

Allan narrowed his eyes as rage boiled in his veins. "Our business is none of your concern."

"Of course it's my concern!" Sharkey spoke, placing a hand over his heart in mock concern, "We don't want unnecessary fights breaking out on this ship, do we, Allan? Or should I dare to say, hypocrite?"

"Get out of my cabin."

Sharkey looked the captain of the _Karaboudjan_ over and smiled.

"I would suggest you lower the gun, first."

Allan felt his finger tighten around the trigger.

" _Make_ me."

Before he realized what had happened, Allan watched as the trusty automatic flew from his hands, giving a startled jolt at the impact of Sharkey's iron grip on his wrist. Sharkey twisted and Allan hissed, shooting an icy glare as he fell to his knees in shooting pain. He heard the automatic clutter in the darkness, out of reach. The only visible thing was Sharkey's widening grin, as his tongue slipped out of his mouth and over his lips.

"Do I have your attention now, _Captain Allan?_ "

Allan glowered in response.

"Good." Sharkey grinned, hovering so close he was also nose-to-nose with Allan. "I suggest you listen closely, because I'm only going to say this once." He raised the still lit match to the underside of Allan's hand; Allan flinched at the sudden increase of heat, "That stunt you pulled a few days ago. Protecting that boy in front of my men. That was cute." He sneered, "Cute isn't acceptable here."

"Who are you to criticize me?" Allan spat, "You're not the captain of this ship!"

Sharkey knowingly smiled.

"Ah. How strange. I don't recall you being one either."

"What are you talking about?" Allan snarled. "I don't know what world you live in, but, last I remember, I was given this position!" There was a pause, and Allan smirked, "You lost to the underdog, remember?"

Sharkey leered and twisted Allan's arm further, leaning in so that Allan could smell old cigarettes and sweat on his coat. He didn't back away, even after he felt the match pressed against his hand, burning his flesh before being tossed aside; Allan bit his tongue as his eyes watered but, held a painful gaze.

He couldn't back away.

He couldn't back away.

"Think what you think. Who do you believe makes the orders around here? Who do you think really keeps this operation running? Who do you believe the Boss actually expects to carry out his plan? Surely not the protector of misfits, soft-hearted, so-called 'Captain' Allan…!"

"Did you really think the boss would put _you_ in charge of his plan? A plan which could expose his entire operation?" Allan chuckled low, "No. Of course not."

"That's why I'm here!"

"It's why you _shouldn't_ be."

Allan felt his world twist as he was jerked from the ground and hurled violently over his own desk, his papers, ink, and maps flying freely into the air before crashing down on the steel floor beside him.

Blinking stars out of his eyes, Allan found himself laying on his side, hugging his bruising ribs as he gasped desperately for air. Sharkey strolled around his desk, hands in his pockets as he watched the spilled ink and lamp oil pool around Allan's collapsed form.

Allan forced himself to stand, swaying unsteadily on his feet and leaning on his desk for support.

He felt the air leave his lungs as a fist connected to his gut, causing him lose his footing and fall forward in an ungracious heap.

Allan, with clenched teeth, watched through his swimming vision as Sharkey extracted a piece of paper from his coat pocket and glanced at it.

"I suggest you change your ways, Allan. Start acting like a _real_ captain." With a sickening smile, he carelessly flicked the paper towards Allan, the downed captain reaching out as it slipped between his fingers and landed face-down in the ink around him. He couldn't hide his whine of despair as he fished it out of the mix, pulling himself to his elbows as he examined the damage.

Whatever had been left of the folded family photo, hidden for years within the confines of his desk, was gone. The features of the people in the portrait, and memories they had together, were now distorted by the jet black ink dripping off the paper. He wiped at it with the back of his sleeve, but it was no use.

It was gone.

The only thing he had left of his old, forsaken world was gone.

He blinked back the welling tears, bringing his hands up only to smear the ink on his flushed cheeks. The pair of grungy boots connecting with his nose brought him back to reality and he forced his watery gaze to look up and meet the cold steely eyes staring back at him.

"You miserable dog."

"You deadbeat captain." Sharkey retorted, smirking, "I have to say, Allan. I quite like this game of pretend."

He placed the edge of his boot on the captain's fallen cap, crushing it under the weight of his foot.

"What game?" Allan grunted, the iron taste of blood seeping into the back of his mouth.

"As one false captain to another, let us make a promise." He kicked the flattened hat aside and turned in the dark, heading for the sliver of light visible through the cracked door. "Let us promise to never let this game end."

Allan, staring after the figure as he ghosted out the door, allowed his head to fall back to the floorboards as his trembling hands snaked around his shoulders.

He did not cry.

He did not whine.

He simply laid there through the night, listening to the ship breathe and move around him. He could do nothing but stare into the darkness until the light of dawn sliced through the remnants of his room and filtered over his battered, broken form.

He stared at the porthole and flinched at the new light of day.

The night was over.

It was time for real work to begin.


End file.
